Hearts Can Break
by TrappedInPast
Summary: How can an iceberg change so many lives? Jack and Rose must somehow find a way to attempt to survive - but the odds are against both of them escaping.
1. Finding You

"Mr. Andrews, forgive me. I did the sum in my head, and the number of lifeboats times the capacity you mentioned, forgive me, but there does not seem to be enough for everyone aboard."  
Rose DeWitt-Bukater, dressed in a fine blue and white gown, her gold- trimmed shawl wrapped around her arms, looked with mild interest at Thomas Andrews, the man her question had been addressed too. If truth be told, she had paid certain attention to the lifeboats to get her mind off of something else. Someone else. That someone was named Jack Dawson.  
He had been haunting her thoughts since last night, his boyishly handsome face fading in and out of her mind.  
After that party she was thrilled and amazed to think that she was falling for a penniless man. She had entertained obnoxious daydreams, defying her marriage in her mind. She had been left with a desperate desire to see him again. And I would have, she thought with utter horror, if Cal and my mother hadn't talked some sense in me.  
She shook her head slightly to clear those foggy thoughts. Forget Jack Dawson. He was more of an illusion, anyway. She was much better off in her wealthy marriage to Caledon Hockley, who was in the steel business. Jack was just a.a dream of freedom, of love. Not the real thing. The real thing was Society and reputations. She had to keep telling herself that. She had been out of her mind to even allow a friendship with him, especially one as intimate as theirs' had been.  
"About half actually. Rose, you miss nothing, do you?" Mr. Andrews reply slammed her back to reality. She smiled tolerantly. "See, I put in these special extra type davits, which can take an extra row of boats inside this one. But it was thought, by some, that the deck would look too cluttered, and so I was overruled," he explained.  
Cal seemed to smirk. "Waste of deck space as it is, on an unsinkable ship," he commented, hitting a lifeboat with his walking stick.  
"Sleep soundly, young Rose. I have built you a good ship, strong and true. She's all the lifeboats you need. Just keep heading aft. The next stop is the." Rose didn't hear the rest of Mr. Andrews' words. A strong, gentle hand gripped her arm. Alarmed, she turned to the man leaning against the nearest lifeboat, sighing inwardly with relief when she saw it was only Jack. He motioned her into the gymnasium. Thinking this was the perfect time to end their silly flirtations, she followed.  
When they got inside he removed his hat. His blonde hair flopped attractively into his beautiful, dark, deep blue eyes. Suddenly, the words were difficult to get out. For a moment, the most golden moment of her life so far, she wanted to whisper, "I'm sorry, Jack. I love you," but reason wiped the thought away.  
Instead, she managed to say, "Jack, this is impossible. I can't see you." She turned to go, but his tender hand stopped her. She turned to look at him, distress etching her face.  
Jack was afraid. He had rehearsed his words over and over in his mind, but he had thought she would welcome them, instead of shunning them. "I need to talk to you," he begged lamely.  
"No Jack, no," she pleaded. He gently pinned her against a misty glass window. "Jack," she went on, "I'm engaged. I'm marrying Cal." She looked at him helplessly. "I love Cal."  
Never had Jack felt so foolish then at that moment. Did she think this was all over his combating emotions? Of course some of it was, but.it was about her freedom too.  
"Rose," he began, "you're no picnic, alright? You're a spoiled little brat even." Smooth, he thought, real smooth. Then he noticed her eyes had changed. They were dancing a forbidden dance of.what? Love? Excitement? Joy? Amusement?  
"But under that," he went on as he struggled for words, "you're the most amazing, astounding, wonderful girl.woman.that I've ever known. And." Her eyes returned to her worry.  
"Jack, I." She tried to slip out from under him.  
"Wait, let me try to get this out!" He protested. "You're ama." He sighed with frustration. "I'm not an idiot. I know how the world works. I've got ten bucks in my pocket, I have n...nothing to offer you and I know that. I understand." Slowly, Jack touched her arm for the briefest second, feeling her stir under his fingertips. "But I'm too involved now. You jump, I jump, remember? I can't turn away without knowing you'll be alright." He shook his head. "That's all that I want."  
Rose's mind started pounding. He wanted to make sure she was safe. He cared about her. He had just said he cared about her.  
"Well I'll be fine. Really." She tried to smile to reassure him. Jeez, Jack thought, she's trying to fool everyone.  
"Really? I don't think so." Her smile evaporated. "They've got you trapped, Rose," he exclaimed, his finger pointing angrily outside, "and you're gonna die if you don't break free, maybe not right away because you're strong but." She was crying now. God, he hadn't wanted to hurt her. To see something so gorgeous in such anguish tore at his heart. He put his hand up to wipe away a tear in her eye and it stayed there, trembling, caressing her cheek. ".that fire I love about you, Rose, sooner or later that fire is going to burn out."  
Love? Rose's mind went blank. He was offering to help her, and he had just hinted at his true feelings.  
"It's not up to you to save me, Jack," she fought out of her mouth. Jack gulped. He wanted it to be up to him, so badly. He would do anything to unbind this one beautiful, wonderful girl.  
"You're right. Only you can do that." He started to lean towards her. He knew he shouldn't kiss her, that now wasn't the time, but he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He couldn't help it.  
Romance caught him in its painful grasp as he moved his lips closer to hers. At first, he thought she was going to allow it. Then, almost sobbing, she reached a perfectly gloved hand to his rough one.  
Suddenly, the Rose he had come to love disappeared beneath the Rose everyone else knew. "I'm going back," she choked. "Leave me alone." This time, he let her slip from him. He couldn't keep her there against her will. As she poised herself and glided back to her group without a backwards glance, he put his head against the window, frustrated and angry and hurt. He stayed there for as long as he dared, musing over this mystery of a woman. Her leaving symbolized what he had feared. She preferred the simpler way. And, he thought sadly as he heard his heart breaking, she didn't even have the smallest hint of love for him.  
  
As Rose rejoined Cal, her brain throbbed. She hadn't needed to be so unkind, but the battle that had been going on in her mind had threatened to bring her to the wrong choice. Her life was down the safe and easy path now; it was so much better that way. She would marry her fiancée, and live the life expected of Society women. The money problems introduced by her irresponsible father would be taken care of.  
Yet, a tiny part of her heart protested so loudly soon her whole body was swept into its voice. She did not quite understand what Jack had offered her, but it sounded so beautiful she was falling for it.  
As her emotions fought a constant, painful battle, Cal's cold, menacing hand closed over her arm. His grip was like the steel he owned. She was pushed back into Jack's voice. Quite suddenly, as though a mirror had been cleared, she understood what he had to give perfectly. Freedom.  
  
Jack hadn't gone back to his cabin. He couldn't face Fabrizio and Tommy, not yet. He was too raw to let them know they had been right.  
He had trudged back down to steerage, and had gone to the only place he ever went to think aboard this floating palace, the bow.  
He leaned over the rail, gulped in icy, salty air, and looked at the churning waves while trying to sort through his churning thoughts. Every single part of his mind was on Rose. She fit her name, her inner beauty and strong desire wrapped in the thorns of her society in which she had grown in.  
He had tried to explain his strong feelings with her, feelings that he had been almost positive she shared, and had been shunned away. That bothered him, but what hurt most was he was helpless to do anything about it. He had needed to talk to her, to try to get his mind out in the open, to lay the cards on the table. He had gazed upon her desperate desire for freedom. His inner artist had seen inside her, seen that she needed to escape. He remembered his words that had true meaning to him, the ones he had stuttered over in the gymnasium. Nothing made sense anymore.  
Jack felt like sobbing. He knew she needed help, but she was too uncertain and proud to take it. There were walls between the two of them, walls that Rose was not quite ready to break down. Jack would have smashed them in a second if it had been up to him, but he wasn't. Cal. Her mother. Money. Society. Reputations. Everything that Jack considered stupid was everything to her. Her life was built on her chains, and she couldn't tear herself free. No matter how hard he tried to unlock her, what it all boiled down to was she had the key, not him.  
  
Rose sat rigidly in a finely upholstered chair. Her mother sat beside her and daintily sipped hot English tea out of a china cup.  
"Tell Lucille about the disaster you had with the stationers," the Countess of Rothes suggested to Ruth, imitating her and drinking slowly, a pinkie poised in the air.  
"Well, of course the invitations had to be sent back, twice." Ruth said with gossipy airs. Her eyes got large.  
"Oh my word," Lady Lucille Duff-Gordon exclaimed.  
"And the dreadful bridesmaid gowns, let me tell you what an odyssey that has been. Rose decided she wanted lavender. She knows I despise the color, so she did it just in spite of me."  
Rose stopped listening to her mother's erotic insults and shifted her blank stare to the table next to them. A lovely little girl sat with a broken posture in her chair. Her mother immediately put out a hand to correct it. The girl now sat lifeless as a doll while her mother showed her how to carefully lay a napkin on her lap.  
Was this how Rose's life was going to be? Another person dictating her every move as if she were a child? She was anything but. Quite suddenly, Jack's words drifted back to her.  
"They've got you trapped, Rose, and you're gonna die if you don't break free, maybe not right away because you're strong, but.that fire that I love about you Rose. Sooner or later that fire is going to burn out."  
Trapped. Die. That was her life. She was trapped and she was going to die. Jack had showed her a mere escape route, and she had shunned it. She had shunned him. The disgrace of not listening to her heart proved much more than following it.  
She stood. "Mother, I am feeling rather ill. I think the sea air is getting to me. Please excuse me to my cabin." Ruth looked up from her conversation and nodded.  
"Of course, dear. Go."  
In a dreamlike trance, Rose floated past the Grand Staircase and to the lift. She managed to whisper, "E-deck," and got out when the doors were pulled open.  
Then she awoke, trying to remember the path Jack had taken her down to get to the General Room. She got lost several times but managed to find her way down a gleaming white corridor, towards the sound of loud, happy Irish music.  
A few heads turned to stare at her as she made a graceful entrance, but none sought her out. She didn't recognize anyone, and she certainly didn't see Jack. He would have run to her. Just as she was about to leave, her eye caught two people that were vaguely familiar. One was Italian, the other Irish. She remembered meeting them.  
Without so much as a second thought, she moved towards them. They both looked up. The Italian jumped excitedly to his feet. "Looking for someone?" He asked, teasing her gently. He had a quiet manner. His accent was charming, but easy to understand. She didn't hesitate at all. She grasped his shoulders. He didn't as much as start. Instead, he put his hands on her back. "What can I do?"  
Rose looked him straight in his warm brown eyes. "Where is he?" This man, Fabrizio?, understood immediately.  
"On the bow. You two are pazzo." Rose immediately whirled around and followed the directions he shouted after her.  
  
Jack became angry at himself for wanting Rose to be free so badly. She seemed to be fine with the way her life was. Yet, somehow, he knew she wasn't and couldn't be. She was hurt and dying.  
Last night, she had gotten a taste of freedom. Last night, she had been laughing in his arms.  
Last night.  
Cal's loyal valet had retrieved Rose from his world, as much as Rose had wanted to stay. Something had happened between then and now, because she was afraid to see him.  
After Jack had returned Molly's son's clothes, he, Fabrizio, and Tommy had discussed Rose. They didn't even support him.  
"Jack, that rich lass is trouble, even if she means none. You are a trickle of life to her, but you ain't her sea," Tommy had pointed out.  
"You saw her. I'm telling you, she's not like the rest," Jack protested, still feeling Rose pressed next to him.  
Now Fabrizio chimed in, his Italian accent swirling through the air. "She is different from you. She's millionaro. There is niente reasoning with her. She is not the one, no? She causes hurt. You must use caution with her type. Her place. Pazzo."  
Jack had been fuming. They didn't understand. He had stomped up to the deck, to get some cold air to his overheated brain. Fabrizio's words rang in his head. The one. Jack thought about that statement. His conclusion almost knocked him over backwards, for under a billion glittering stars, a billion diamonds; he realized exactly why he was in such a daze about everything around him.  
He had fallen in love with Rose DeWitt-Bukater.  
Love had existed for him ever since he had seen her, a fiery red angel above him. God, she had been so beautiful. He had stared transfixed at her, and she couldn't help sadly glancing at him once. She had been shocked by her own boldness, and had quickly looked away. Yet she had been curious, and couldn't resist a last glimpse at him. She had looked incredibly miserable.  
Jack hadn't even known her name, the sound of her voice, or her past, but in that second, staring at those beautiful, aching, blue-green eyes, he would have done anything to take her pain away.  
Back at the rail, looking out at the sea in the rich sunset, Jack sighed with frustration. Why did he have to care so much? Why did it have to torture his soul, knowing what she was going through?  
"It serves you right for falling for a rich girl," the bleakest, most confused part of his brain chanted.  
He wanted to help her so bad, to make her happier. He wanted to free her. He couldn't just stand there and watch her suffocate under the rigidness of her life.  
"Don't be stupid, Jack. You can only help someone if they let you," his mind chastised.  
Another part of his mind, the lovestruck part, protested lamely, "Yes, I know, but."  
But what?  
Jack Dawson was in denial.  
Jack was never in denial. It was against his character. He hit things head on, accepted the unacceptable, and fought for right. He moved on to the next day, since he what was done was done, in his opinion, and there was nothing he could do about it. He did not deny.  
Rose had put him in denial.  
Why? That was all Jack wanted to know. Why did he have to fall so hard over some girl he couldn't be with? Why did it have to torture his soul, knowing what she was going through? Why did he have to love her so much that.  
"Hello Jack."  
Jack's thoughts stopped dead. What kind of stupid mind trick was this? It couldn't be. He whirled around.  
It was.  
Rose DeWitt-Bukater, in all her elegance, beauty, and grace, stood before him, her blue gown and white shawl blowing in the wind.  
"I changed my mind."  
For a moment, he thought his knees would buckle. He smiled. Every fiber of him was so happy he thought he would explode. She had come to him, finally. And right now, he was so in love with her that was all that mattered. It was the moment. The time for her freedom and his love.  
"They said you might be up here." Rose began.  
"Shh," Jack tenderly shushed her. Rose looked at him curiously. "Give me your hand," he said, his voice dreamy. He grinned again, a boyish grin that knocked Rose senseless. She did as he asked. The rough feeling of his warm, gentle, calloused artist's hand over hers seduced her. He drew her to him as Titanic cut through the frosty golden waves. The moment was unknown and unexplored for both of them. Rose treasured it as she stopped inches away from Jack's chest.  
"Now close your eyes," he whispered. Rose smiled, confused. What did this man have up his sleeve?  
"Go on," he softly urged. He was barely able to control his excitement as her soft eyelids flickered closed, shutting out momentarily the beautiful scene around her. "Now step up. Hold onto the railing," he breathed as he helped her up on the prow. "Keep your eyes closed. Don't peek!"  
"I'm not," she replied in a voice that told him that she was anticipating whatever he was doing as much as he.  
"Step up onto the rail," he continued as he assisted her. He braced her with his own body.  
"Do you trust me?" He asked, her words tickling her ears.  
"I trust you." She didn't hesitate a second.  
Slowly, he spread he arms out across her, like the wings she so desperately needed. She was rigid at first, afraid, but then she relaxed, like warm water, and let him finish. When her arms were all the way out, he took his hands and put them around her small waist.  
"Alright," he whispered into her fiery hair, "now open your eyes."  
She did so, and immediately her senses were overflowed. She was flying over a sea of bronze, into the horizon which was painted with the most beautiful purples, pinks, blues, and oranges she had ever beheld.  
"I'm flying! Jack!" It was all Jack who freed her, who held her safe. He made it possible for her to race away from her loveless engagement, her cold fiancée, her brittle mother, her harsh lifestyle. It was he who was the air under her, guiding her.  
Jack smiled. He could feel her excitement, the joy radiating off her body. He breathed into her neck, holding her, feeling her, being with her. It was exhilarating to him. Her beautiful scarlet locks whipped in the wind around his face. A perfumed scent from her hair and skin floated to his nose. Her shawl circled the both of them.  
He stretched out his own arms, soaring with her. He couldn't help it any longer. His fingers began caressing hers, saying with his hands what he was struggling to say with words. He began to softly sing a melody that had been popular the year before.  
"Come Josephine, my flying machine going up she goes, up she goes." What made Rose shiver was not the brisk wind or the sound of crashing waves; it was the way Jack was playing with her fingers, the way she was responding, the way his breath fell hot against her neck.  
She should have told him to stop, but she didn't. This was what she wanted. She was surprised when Jack began to lower his arms over hers, back to his middle. Then she realized that they weren't finished flying.  
His hand was over her shoulder. They other moved to her waist, lightly holding her gown. His mouth began to move towards hers, tender and eager. She turned to face him. Slowly, she felt his velvet lips begin to melt against her silk ones. The kiss started slow and contained. Rose knew she was out of line, but she felt herself responding.  
As his kiss became more urgent, a stark, beautiful truth hit her. She had fallen completely and irrevocably in love with Jack Dawson.  
Her hand moved to the back of his neck, getting tangled in his hair, as she pulled him closer to her. Her other hand clutched at the sleeve of his coat. She was intoxicated by the exotic rise and fall of Jack's chest against her, the warm feeling of his tongue dipping into her mouth, exploring her. Never had a kiss been so passionate. She was lost in him.  
Jack realized what he was doing. He was kissing an engaged women, and not being too restrained either. But then she was in a forced engagement. She was kissing him back. And, to top it off, he loved her. That was enough for him to keep going. He stirred against her, stopping for breath and continuing. He had been waiting for this moment ever since he had seen her.  
Rose was shocked at how natural and beautiful it was. She realized this was what she had wanted to do all along, at the end of her muddled thoughts. His lips felt so soft and beautiful, like the rest of him. The wind coursed around them, the water flowed in currents below. The rich sunset began to fade, and neither noticed.  
Finally, she turned around, facing him. He helped her step off the prow and leaned her against the thick chain holding the mast up. This time, she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest, loving the scent of him, of charcoal and paper. A finger reached under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. He kissed her again, long and slow and warm, and then pressed his forehead against hers. They stood like that, contented, for a moment.  
Jack was amazed that he was holding this girl he had never thought he would be able to even speak too. Clearly, she was feeling the same for him that he felt for her. They gazed into each other's starry eyes, both so obviously in love that it glowed from the pair.  
Rose never imagined what love would be like. Now, it was pure, thrilling, unexpected, dangerous, innocent.something she couldn't remember and couldn't forget. Her practical part said simply, Stop this now Rose. You can make this just a shipboard flirtation. You can still save your marriage. Rose's heart, however, screamed back louder. I am saving my heart. I'm in love with a man named Jack Dawson.  
"Jack," she whispered, "come with me. I want to show you something." Jack looked at her in a playful suspicious sort of way, but allowed Rose to take his hand and lead him inside steerage, away from the rapid purples and blacks now taking over their magical sunset.  
As they walked, there was no conversation. Each had so much to think about that their minds burned without physical talking. Jack couldn't believe it was real. He still half expected to wake up in his berth, for this all to be an unbelievable dream. Yet the taste of Rose's lips on his still lingered as proof. He was amazed. Still, he reminded himself irritably, she might not necessarily be in love with him. They had kissed twice. That was it. Two times might not be enough to risk everything, her marriage, her life, her home, for him. Yet every ounce of his being was praying it was.  
The hallways twisted and turned until finally they found themselves on boat deck. First class passengers, many of whom Rose knew, strolled arm in arm on the deck. Rose's head told her to let go of Jack's hand lest someone see them, but her heart knew otherwise. She didn't loosen her grip. Instead, she walked closer to him. He uncertainly wrapped his arm around her shoulders. A few dirty looks were thrown at them, but neither noticed. They gazed at each other, smiling, the happiest they had been in their whole lives.  
Rose glided down the staircase, graceful and poised as always, yet glowing with more fire and enthusiasm than Jack had ever seen her. She led the way down an elaborate corridor, the carpets lush, and the light fixtures ornate and precise.  
"Is it.ok.for me to be here?" His voice trembled. He was offering her a way to get out now, if she didn't feel anything.  
Rose turned to him and seemed to giggle as she opened a stateroom door, B-54. "It's quite proper, I assure you." The door swung open and the pair stepped in. "This is the sitting room," she continued.  
Jack set about at once, examining the lavish and beautiful furnishings. The woods were dark and exquisite. Everything seemed to be designed for comfort. Several doors led to what seemed to be a washroom, a bedroom, a wardrobe, and a sort of deck. He was investigating the shiny, dustless fireplace when Rose spoke again.  
"Will this light do?"  
Jack looked up. "What?"  
She paused in hanging up her scarf. "Don't artists need good light?"  
Jack chuckled inwardly. He put on a fake French accent. "That is true, but I am not used to working in such.horrible conditions!" Rose laughed. Suddenly his eyes caught an explosion of paint in the corner. Immediately he recognized the artist. "Monet!"  
Rose followed him as he bent near the painting. "You know his work?" She asked unbelievably.  
"Of course," Jack sighed as he traced his expert finger over the lines of brush strokes. "Look at his use of color here, isn't it great?"  
"I know," Rose replied. "It's extraordinary." She turned to go do something. Jack marveled over the picture for another couple of seconds, and then turned to find her. As he went, his eyes swept around the suite, amazed at the luxury of it all. If he had thought third-class was nice.whew. It was nothing compared to this. Nothing.  
"Cal insists on carting this hideous thing everywhere." Rose's voice was nervous as her fingers flew over the combination to a large green safe.  
"Will we be expecting him anytime soon?" Jack asked, curious. Rose slammed the metal door shut.  
"Not as long as the cigars and brandy hold out," she answered. She took something out of a blue velvet box and cast the box aside. Jack felt her presence at his shoulder. He looked over as she held a necklace out to him.  
It was beautiful, a huge, blue, very expensive stone (by the looks of it) on a white diamond chain. Jack took it in his fingers and held it up to the light in order to see it better.  
"Whew, that's nice!" He exclaimed, turning the necklace over and over. "What is it, a sapphire?" The jewel was such a deep, deep blue.  
"A diamond. A very rare diamond."  
"Whew!"  
Rose ignored Jack's amazement. Her heart was banging out of her ribs. She had broken every single law that had been laid down before her since she was old enough to understand spoken words. For starters, she had fallen in love with a man who was poorer than imaginable, thus defying her engagement. She had lied to her mother and fiancée. Now she was willing to risk everything - her marriage, her wealth, her reputation, society. Beautifully, she didn't question her mind.  
"Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, wearing this."  
"Alright."  
He didn't look up from the necklace, not understanding yet what she meant.  
She swayed on her feet. "Wearing only this," she finished, letting the words sink in. Now Jack did shift his gaze, abruptly. Wearing only this? Did this mean what he thought it meant? She was going to let him see.his cheeks turned pink at the thought. Sure, he had drawn other girls. But they had been French, and this had been routine for them. They hadn't been engaged. And most importantly, he had not been in love with them.  
His face flushed. He struggled to answer. "O.okay," he stuttered. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on his now hot cheek before whirling to go into the bedroom. He watched after her for a moment, enjoying the pleasant tingling sensation her lips had left. Then he sighed and walked into the sitting room, to get ready.  
He lugged a chair out from its corner into the center of the room, and then pulled a couch in front of it, rearranging its pillows to make the drawing more effective. The carpet was plush underneath his feet. His head pounded. His brain turned to mush. He loosened his suspenders and let them fall off his shoulders to his waist. He opened his portfolio and took out his tools, a penknife and a stub of charcoal.  
Finally, after standing still for a moment, he dropped into the soft armchair and dragged an end table in front of him. As he started to sharpen his charcoal and turn to a fresh page in his book, the door to the wardrobe room opened.  
Rose stood in the frame, wearing nothing but a light robe and the necklace. Her beautiful scarlet hair fell freely around her shoulders. She was glowing with excitement. In short, she looked fantastic. His breath was knocked out of him instantly. It was going to be impossible to draw while she looked like.this. Gorgeous was one word, but Jack could think of others. She played madly with the tassel on her dressing gown.  
"The last thing I need," Rose began, wearing a slight smile to mask her nervousness, "is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll. As I paying customer," she opened her palm to reveal a dime and tossed it at Jack's chest. He grinned. "I expect to get what I want." Then, taking a deep inward breath, she stepped backwards. She untied her robe and let it slip softly off her shoulders.  
Jack's mind was suddenly so muddled he couldn't think. Here she was in front of him.bare.and his thoughts, he admitted, embarrassed, were not on sketching her. He gulped. She was so stunning that he had a hard time getting his throat to work. Her skin, so creamy and pure and glowing, was in front of him, and he wanted.  
She was stroking her stomach self-consciously now, as he hadn't said anything for a few moments, had simply been staring at her. He swallowed again. "Over on the bed, the couch," he corrected himself, giving a mental kick in his brain for stumbling with such an embarrassing phrase.  
She seemed to sigh with relief that he actually had spoken. She did as he said and seemed to hesitate, wondering how she should position herself. "Go on," he instructed. "Lie down." His voice was becoming dreamy again, and he struggled to keep himself in check.  
She did as he had told her and began to shift her arms. "Tell me when it looks right." She began.  
"Yeah, put - put that arm back where it was." She laid her left arm in a curve over her head. "Ok. Now put that hand up, right near your face there." She obeyed. Her right fingertips touched her forehead as her forearm arched around her cheek. "Now, chin down, eyes to me, keep them on me, and try to.stay still." He exhaled and drew the first line.  
Rose's heart pounded like a drum inside her ribcage. Never had she felt so strange and natural at once. She tried to pull her nervous smile back as Jack's strong hands began to move over the paper. He looked up, and then continued sketching. His boyish blonde-streaked hair flopped in and out of his eyes as he glanced at her, held her details, and carefully added them onto his picture.  
No one spoke for a few minutes. Rose felt she had to break the silence. She studied his face, his smile creases, his soft, smooth cheeks, and his captivating blue eyes.  
"So serious," she joked, with a deep, manly accent. He let a soft grin touch his perfectly shaped lips before his earnest, somber expression returned. He began to move in music with his hands, doing what he loved most. Soon the drawing began to resemble a woman, staring seductively out at him. He had captured the way her eyes were gazing at him, full of amazement and enchantment. He moved lower down her body. Minutes later, he was sketching her breasts. He could feel his own cheeks turn red. Damn it. He had never been so embarrassed before.  
"I believe you are blushing, Mr. Big Artiste," Rose said sweetly. He smiled slightly again, but never stopped drawing. "I can't imagine Monsieur Monet blushing."  
He abruptly stopped and looked up. "He does landscapes," he answered, teasingly. "Just relax your face. No laughing."  
Rose held back a giggle. "Sorry," she murmured, working her mouth muscles to keep her lips closed.  
Her heart began to beat harder and quicker. Her ears buzzed. For what felt like an eternity, she watched his hands. She could hear the charcoal against paper. She smiled. It was beautiful. Music resounded in her head. She could tell that he wasn't thinking about simply drawing her, and quite honestly she wasn't either.  
His hands were moving slower now. Finally, he sighed. "Ok. Finished." They both smiled. She stood and moved to the center of the room, picked up her robe, and wrapped it around her. Then she walked behind Jack and looked over his shoulder at the finished drawing. She realized how embarrassing it must have been for him, to have to stare at her. Yet he had done an excellent job. Every detail was a mirror image of her body. The necklace was shaded to perfection. It was wonderful.  
He shut his leather portfolio and handed it to her. "Thank you," she whispered. As she took it, she kissed him. She tried to lean away, but Jack didn't let go of his drawings. He lip locked her as she fought for the folder, giggling. He chuckled to, and finally allowed her to break from him when he was out of breath. She kissed his lips softly before wrestling away, taking his pictures with her.  
He sat there for a moment, musing over what had just taken place over the last two hours. He had kissed Rose DeWitt-Bukater, had drawn her without a single piece of clothing on except a blue diamond, and had engaged her in a lip lock. He smiled. Life was looking up.  
Rose tore a piece of paper off of a pad of R.M.S. Titanic stationary in her bedroom. She had decided to defy Caledon Hockley. Jack had given her the strength to break off the engagement. It was never meant to be. Yet Jack Dawson.well, maybe that was a different story. She removed a fountain pen from her desk and began to write a note to the man who had literally threatened her life.  
"Whatcha doin'?" Jack asked, walking into the room with his suspenders still hanging around his middle.  
Rose didn't answer. Instead she smiled and handed him the blue velvet box, the diamond now back inside. "Will you put this back in the safe for me?"  
"Mmm hmm," he answered and took back to the wardrobe. He fit it in its nook. Whew. That was a heck of a fortune that guy must own. Jack was glad it wasn't him who had to be responsible for so much money. Besides, it seemed that Cal had failed miserably.  
A door that was unexplored stood to his right. He opened it and strutted out onto the private promenade, picking up the coat he had shed earlier from the sitting room floor as he walked. The coat wasn't his. He had 'borrowed' it from a first class man so he could disguise himself convincingly enough to see Rose. He would have to return it.  
After he had pulled open a window, he stuck his head out and looked at the deep blue ruffles of the ocean waters. His hair blew back from his face. Surprisingly, it had turned chilly outside. The stars were glittering pieces of ice against a frothy black blanket. Wind thrust itself down his neck and chest.  
He turned away, shivering and rubbing his arms, and made his way back to the sitting room. Rose entered from her bedroom. He blew in his hands. "Getting cold," he muttered. Then he glanced at her. Her flowing burnt red tresses were still down around her shoulders. She had fastened pearl earrings into her lobes, and had dressed herself in a simple gown displaying soft blues, lavenders, and pinks. It was tied with a blush- colored sash and boasted short sleeves. Her shoes were plain and shiny. She was stunningly beautiful.  
"You look nice," he breathed. She smiled and threw her arms around his neck, kissing his lips feverishly. Cal never told her she was pretty, even if that is why he had proposed. He never gazed at her with such longing and joy and love. He never gazed at her with anything besides hate and contempt.  
Suddenly, a knock on the door startled both of them. "Miss Rose?" If Jack didn't recognize the voice, Rose sure did. It was Spicer Lovejoy, Cal's favorite manservant who "took care of things." Rose undid herself from Jack's body, grabbed his hand, and began racing to the back of the suite.  
"My drawings!" He exclaimed quietly as she shoved him in her bedroom. She didn't answer, but shut the door with a barely noticeable, "click!" Jack followed as she opened the door from the stateroom hallway and slipped out, closing it behind them as well. Soon they were both walking down the corridor out to the lifts, quietly smiling. When they were almost in the main Grand Staircase hall, the very same door they had escaped from opened again. Lovejoy stood peering out. They began to walk faster, but the loyal valet picked up his pace, certain to overcome them.  
"Run!" Rose screamed and grabbed Jack's coat. Soon her hand moved to his, and they held while racing to the nearest available elevator. Passengers were disembarking.  
"Wait wait wait wait!" They both yelled, sliding on the heavily waxed floors into the machine. Confused, the bellhop shut the doors behind them. Obviously, he wasn't going fast enough. Rose assisted him.  
"Go! Down! Down down down down!" Jack bellowed without taking a breath. The crew member inside slammed the lever down and the lift began to creak down its rope. Lovejoy slammed himself against the wrought iron just as they got low enough to be safe.  
"Bye!" Rose mocked, waving her middle finger into the air. Jack and Rose giggled like little children. Straightening his tie, Lovejoy turned and began to run down the stairs. Finally, the doors to the elevator opened. Jack stumbled out, waited for Rose, and again locked her hand with his. They began to whip down flights of stairs. They laughed breathlessly all the while as Jack ran into a steward rolling a cart of silverware. He apologized hastily and picked up the few things he had knocked over.  
He and Rose threw themselves behind a door giggling so hard they leaned against the wall.  
"Whew!" Jack gulped. "Pretty tough for a valet, this fella. He seems more like a cop."  
"I think he was," Rose said, gasping for air, a smile on her face.  
Soon Lovejoy raced down the very same steps they had just fallen down. He seemed about to miss them, but at the last second he turned and saw their faces through the glass window.  
  
"Oh shit," Jack mumbled.  
"Go!" Rose shrieked. Jack took the lead and began racing down the narrow passage. He took a turn into a dead end. "Hurry!" Rose cried again.  
"No wait, over here!" He yelled. He turned left and opened a heavy metal door.  
"Quick!" She screamed.  
Jack pulled Rose through the entrance and slammed it behind them, locking it. He looked around as he heard a body throw itself against the wall on the other side. Boiling orange clouds of hot fire were coming up from a narrow shaft. Machines roared. The bulkheads and floors were steel. Obviously, they were in a Boiler Room, an area where they shoveled coal into the Titanic's immense bunkers to power the colossal engines.  
Rose clamped her hands over her ears to block out the unbelievably loud noise. "Now what?" She asked.  
Jack grinned his boyish grin, making his face all the more handsome. "What?" He shouted, mimicking her and throwing his own hands over his own ears. She giggled.  
"Now what!?" She yelled louder.  
"Oh! Um." He looked around then pointed to a ladder descending into the actual steam, where the workers were. "Down there!"  
"Down there?" Rose repeated. Her eyes widened. "But -"He looked at her innocently. He was right. Where else was there? To prove that he wouldn't let anything happen to her, he strode over and pulled her into his arms. She looked up at his face. Without so much as a hesitation, he kissed her soundly on the lips and began to lead her to the ladder.  
He went down first and helped her through the opening. Soon, he was descending, Rose not far behind. He landed on hard concrete floor, grabbed her around the waist, and slung her down. They let their eyes sweep over the room, amazed at the impossible size of the boilers and the area. They felt like tiny insects compared to Titanic.  
It was unbelievably hot. Orange flames boiled in the bunkers, flickering off cement the walls. Sweat was already appearing on their foreheads.  
"Shovel it harder in number seven, mate," an Irish voice instructed. Suddenly, a soot covered man turned noticed them. "Hold up, what are you two doin' down here? It could be dangerous - wait!"  
  
While Jack stood staring at him, frozen, Rose moved into action. She grabbed Jack's coat collar and began to run. He followed with accurate speed. Rose's dress glowed gold with the glittering light as it soared gracefully behind her. Jack's black coat followed, floating like a cloud. His feet pumped under him.  
"Don't mind us! You're doing a great job! Keep up the good work!" Jack sang out. Rose laughed, a magical melody drifting through the air. She was beautiful, her hair catching the firelight, her legs moving like cool water beneath her.  
They finally stumbled, giggling, into the cargo hold. Jack slammed the thick door shut behind them.  
"Ah, what do we have here, huh?" His eyes were trained on the dark red and black car parked in the middle of all the other boxes and crates. He took Rose's hand and led her to it. There, he began to inspect the steering wheel, seats, and pedals. He had never seen one up close before.  
Rose cleared her throat pointedly. Jack chuckled, opened the side door, and extended his hand.  
"Thank you," Rose said with exaggerated wealthy airs. She took it and allowed him to help her inside. Once situated, she sat on the finely upholstered seat and glanced beside her as the door was shut. Red roses were in a vase, fixed to the wall, in a romantic theme. They were alone. She smiled. This was it. Her heart pounded, but strangely she wasn't at all anxious.  
Jack climbed in the front as she pulled down the glass window that separated them. She looked over his shoulders as he honked the horn and lifted his chin. She restrained her snickers.  
"Where to, miss?" He asked, still playing their little game. It was all about to end.  
She leaned next to his ear. "To the stars," she whispered, her breath tickling his skin. He barely had time to feel shocked before she grabbed him around the waist and pulled him into the back seat with her. His grin softened as he fit himself comfortably next to his love.  
Her eyes were full of amazement and adoration. He took her hand in his and began to caress it. He played with her fingers, moving his in and out of the spaces.  
"Nervous?" He asked gently.  
She looked at him as though he was being foolish. She shook her head slightly. "No," she breathed. His smile widened. She took his smooth fingers from hers and brought them to her mouth, kissing them tenderly, one by one, as though blessing them.  
Everything inside of her just wanted to be cherished.  
Jack Dawson was dazed. He was in a passion. Every ounce of him was submerged in a cool, everlasting, deep love that he had thought was impossible. No matter what boundaries were between them, they were all tumbling down. This one girl was filling him with emotions that he treasured.  
"Put your hands on me, Jack," Rose sighed longingly. Unsure of what to do, his hand flexed. She guided it to her breast. Suddenly they were both swept into each other. His lips were suddenly devouring hers, feeling every kiss and caress she gave. Her hands moved over his back, holding his overcoat. He leaned over her. Suddenly they were lying on the seat, Rose beneath him.  
After a moment, he began to fool with her dress, pulling at the sash. She helped him untie it and it slipped to the floor. She managed to work his heavy black coat off his back until it fell beside the sash. Their lips never lost contact. They stopped for breath, and were back at it, kissing so intensely that they began to shiver with fervor.  
She could feel his hands jerking at her dress and smiled, knowing what he wanted. She allowed him to have it by undoing the back of the gown and letting him slip it off her. He didn't gawk at her or make her feel uncomfortable, even when he finally managed to win the struggle with her underclothes and glide them from her body to the floor. Instead, he kissed the hallows neck.  
She waited until he took a break for a second until she began to unbutton his overworn white shirt. She met his eyes before affectionately pulling it off over his head. She gracefully ran her hands over his exposed flesh. His muscles were strong and powerful. His skin was tan from hours in the sun. In short, he looked fantastic.  
Jack's lips lingered on her smooth, creamy skin. He brushed them across her stomach, her chest, her neck. She held onto his face and pulled him up to meet her. Suddenly his lips were on hers, meeting again and again, until they were gasping for air. After another long, unbroken kiss, his mouth was back on her neck, exploring the delicate hallows and moving across to her other ear. She kissed his stomach, leaving a trail of such past his chest, neck, and to his lips. It drove Jack mad, the feeling silk against him, and he kissed her passionately back. 


	2. Trying to Tear Us Apart

**Thanks a lot Jenna for that really sweet review. This is my first story and I'm struggling to make it work. I was on vacation for a week but here's some more.  
  
Also, I do not own any of these characters or the movie (well, I have the tapes) that these characters inhabit. I guess James Cameron or one of those guys do.**  
  
Brains weren't working. Rose's practical streak and Jack's sensible mind were turned off. As the minutes blazed into hours, they only thought of each other. Jack was so gentle with Rose that it shocked her. He moved his hands softly to the small of her back and then up again, making her shiver with happiness as she responded thoroughly to his actions.  
Tenderly, he stroked her and continued to enfold her in a lost night of unbelievable passion and love. They inside of the car became warm, then hot, then boiling. Sweat poured off of their bodies, beading over every inch of them. Rose threw her hand against the steamy back window. It pulsed against the glass as Jack began to brush his lips against her breast, sending waves of tangible and unbearable emotions through her body. Finally he moved back to her upper body and the hand fell onto his skin.  
Exhausted, he moved his head from the hallows of her neck as she moved hers from his side. They looked deep into each other's blue eyes, trying to solve a mystery that didn't have an answer.  
Jack was gasping for oxygen as he lay on top of Rose. It was she who first spoke.  
"You're trembling."  
It was true. His whole form was shaking from the ardor of the night. Yet he didn't want her to feel guilty. He swallowed.  
"Don't worry," he managed to whisper, his voice changing tones with the extreme of it all. "I'll be alright." He kissed her again, shorter this time. However, she knew he was fatigued from their experience. She gently brushed his sticky hair out of his face and kissed his forehead, slowly, and pressed his head onto her chest. He sighed, full of bliss, and let his eyes flicker closed. Suddenly they heard footsteps echoing in the steel hallways into the cargo room. Rose gasped. They were going to be caught. This was it. She had put everything she owned on the line for this one man, just to be caught by a couple of crewmen.  
Jack heard them too. He looked up and straightened. "We've gotta -" He stopped to gulp. "We've gotta leave." Rose couldn't nod. She lay frozen, like a deer caught in the headlights. "Now," Jack whispered. He shifted a little and began to inch his way into his clothing as voices began to float around the room.  
"You are sure you saw two people in here? You're sure they didn't belong here?"  
"Aye," A man answered.  
The words shocked Rose back into action. She slipped on her dress as Jack threw on his coat and grabbed her hand. They slid silently from the Renault and managed to dash behind a tower of crates, all the while moving slowly to the door out on the deck.  
"They ran down there," The chief stoker gestured.  
"Right," a steward nodded.  
Jack and Rose watched cautiously as two men slowly entered the room, shining the beams of their flashlights into every nook they saw. Soon the ray would hit the lovers. They ducked further behind a box.  
The blonde-haired man examined the car more thoroughly and found the steamy handprint. His cheeks turned red as the knowledge hit him. Nonetheless he signaled his partner and jabbed his head at the glass. Both of them raced to the door, breathing heavily, while the first man tore it open. "Gotcha!" He cried. The look on his face when he was left with an empty seat was one of such shock and surprise that it was all the couple could do to keep silent as they made their way to boat deck.  
Jack banged the door shut behind them as clear, cold, icy air filled his lungs. He began to twirl Rose around the deck as they laughed so hard they couldn't breathe.  
"Did you see those guys' faces?" He asked, gasping. She giggled. "Did you see.?" Rose put one perfect finger to his lips to gently silence him. She looked deep into his face. She had never been so serious and so nervous in all her life. Yet under all these mixing emotions was love, the only feeling she could believe in.  
"When the ship docks," she whispered, her voice full of wonder, "I'm getting off with you." His eyes widened with disbelief and confusion. Rose was born into the highest Society known to man. How could she throw away it all for him?  
He looked at her and knew she was telling the truth. Jack's insides flip flopped. His life would never be the same. It didn't matter that it was impossible for them to be together, that she was engaged to another man, or that they were stranded on Titanic.  
"This is crazy," he replied. It was. Their love was crazy and strange and deep and beautiful and amazing.  
"I know," she bubbled, reaching her hand behind his head and running her fingers through his hair. "It doesn't make any sense. That's why I trust it."  
The sensations flooding through Jack's body were indescrible. She pulled him to her and their lips met as they kissed again and again, desperately, moving against each other. Everything was blurred as they became lost in each other again, dreading the moment when they would have to break apart.  
A minute later, the deck started to tremble beneath their feet almost as much as Rose's heart. They had not heard the clanging of an emergency bell, but now a hideous scraping sound filled their ears. As they turned, they were shocked at what they saw.  
An iceberg. 


	3. Who Are You?

**I do not own these characters or their world. I hope that everyone enjoys the story. It'll take a while to finish. Read & Review**  
  
It was a monument of glazed crystal, reflecting blue and white tones on the wooden deck. Their eyes moved up and down the enormous height of the berg as it towered over them. Ice as white as snow rained on deck.  
"Get back!" Jack shouted, moving in front of Rose to shield her as they both stared at the berg.  
They watched as it seemed to glide past them as the its pearl color faded into the velvet night as it scraped along the starboard side of the bow. Jack could picture the metal and steel being slashed and water colder than imaginable streaking through the ship. Titanic was a miracle. His fears were groundless. Yet as the iceberg disappeared, he found that he was left shaking in its place. He ran to the rail, following its path until it was out of sight. He turned.  
Rose was white as a ghost. All of the glow and blush from their experiences had vanished behind a frothy, terrified expression that chilled his insides. He wrapped his arms around her as she leaned against him, trying to protect her from something he was already pondering.  
The Titanic wasn't unsinkable.  
Rose shivered and allowed Jack to turn and guide her back to deck, where he picked up a chunk of fallen ice. It showed no signs of melting, but stayed hard and frozen.  
"Do you hear something?" Rose asked suddenly.  
Jack stood empty-handed and listened.  
Rose realized it wasn't a sound, but rather the absence of sound. The steady, throbbing engines deep inside the ship had stopped, completely. It was as if the Titanic's heart had died, leaving the liner lifeless. She shook with barely sustained dread, not wanting to know why they were at a complete stand still.  
They stood for several minutes, musing in absolute bewilderment, until Rose began to shiver, not with fear, but with cold.  
"C'mon. Let's go inside," Jack whispered, engulfing her in his coat. She looked up at him, welcoming the sureness of his voice. He leaned over her to kiss her hair, but at the last second she turned her head and he was kissing her lips instead.  
The stood, mouths' melting against the other's, for as long as Jack dared. He was aware that Rose could get sick if she stayed chilled for too long, so eventually he broke the kiss and began to help her up the flight of metal steps to higher deck.  
As he opened the top gate separating the foremast from the steerage area, the lovers passed four men talking rapidly on their way below. Rose recognized Captain E.J. Smith, Mr. Andrews, and Officer Wilde but was puzzled by the identity of the last crewmember. They caught snatches of conversation.  
"She's all buckled up in the forward hull, and the mail hold is worse."  
"Can you shore up?"  
"Not unless the pumps get ahead."  
"Have you seen the damage in the mail hold?"  
"No, she's already underwater."  
Jack whistled as the men bustled past. He held Rose's hand while he watched the Captain's straight, square shoulders fade into the darkness much like the iceberg had.  
"Whew, this is bad," he muttered. He shook his head.  
Rose, who seemed to have recovered some of her voice, sighed. "We should go tell mother and Cal," she stated. Jack looked down at her face. What did she mean? Was she saying that the night had meant nothing to her, that she wanted to return to Society? That she wanted to marry a scumbag like Caledon Hockley?  
She met his gaze with her sapphire eyes and shook her head. "No darling," she whispered. "I'm still staying with you. You can't get rid of me that easily."  
He cracked that grin of his, which was interrupted by a quick kiss and Rose's hand tugging his to the first class section of the ship. He followed, feeling guilty that he could smile so broadly while the ship was crippled. But then again, they couldn't really be in danger, could they?  
When he woke from his train of thought, he realized they were stepping into the lift on E-deck, the very same one they had tumbled out of hours before.  
"B-deck," Rose ordered as the bellhop now pulled the lever in the "Up" position. She wrapped her soft, light arms around his neck and stroked a turn of hair from the back of his neck. "It'll be fine," she soothed. "They can't change my mind. Not now, not ever. Just - trust me."  
He laughed a little. "Ok," he answered. Yet his heart was throwing itself against his ribs and his head felt light and dizzy. Jack was never this afraid of people. They could do nothing to him. He took a deep breath as the elevator creaked to a stop and the doors were opened. Rose led him out onto the marble floors that lay beneath the Grand Staircase. The first man that greeted the both of them was Spicer Lovejoy, who had obviously been waiting.  
"Just keep holding my hand," Rose muttered as they walked to him.  
"We've been looking for you Miss," Lovejoy drooled, a fake smile pasted on his face. The couple completely ignored him and took quick, determined strides to Rose's suite.  
Jack felt something heavy on his side but thought it to be his own nerves. Although his hand was in his coat, he didn't explore the pocket. He was too uneasy about the meeting that was about to occur.  
However, unknown to Jack and Rose, Lovejoy had been sent on a mission to frame Jack Dawson. He had stealthily slipped the priceless Heart of the Ocean, the blue stone Rose had worn for the drawing, into Jack's pocket. Because Jack hadn't investigated, the scheme would go undetected. For just a moment Lovejoy longed to take the jewel back out, but remembered that this boy had run from him, taking Mr. Hockley's fiancée in body and heart. He didn't regret any actions.  
Cal was perched nervously and unsurely on the sofa. He had seen the artist's work and had gazed upon it longingly. He would give anything to make Rose DeWitt-Bukater look at him like that, like she was in love with him. With feeble efforts he had attempted to win at least some affection, but he had known all along it wasn't working. He had given her the diamond because it was the only way he knew to show his feelings. Obviously all had failed. He had turned into the man she saw him to be, a rotten bastard who was plotting against the steerage gutter rat she had taken a liking to. Depressed, he grabbed a cigar, lit it, and blew rings of smoke around his head.  
Jack and Rose walked in, Rose's hands playing around Jack's fingers, her mouth set in a determined line. Everyone froze upon their entrance as Lovejoy shut the door silently behind them. Ruth had not seen the sketch, of course, but had been pacing madly in the back of the stateroom. She stilled now, looking with horror upon the man whom her daughter was basically entangled with.  
"Something serious has happened," Rose began calmly as she could. She was of course referring to the iceberg, but not another soul in the room saw it that way.  
"Yes it has," Cal growled. Jack moved closer to Rose, as if to protect her should anyone try to become physical. Cal saw the movement, slight as it was, and realized it would be very gentlemanly to knock his fiancée down in front of the Master of Arms, nor very smart.  
"Indeed," he continued maddeningly. "Two things have disappeared from me this evening. Now that one is back, I have a pretty good idea where to find the other." His dead brown eyes swept Jack's form. "Search him."  
Jack let go of Rose's hand. "Aw, now what?" He groaned. She looked confused.  
"Come on, take your coat off sir," the chief officer prodded.  
"Cal, we're in the middle of an emergency. What's going on?" Rose asked angrily. Cal's thoughts were swept from his head by the look his wife-to-be was giving him. Although she was, he had no doubt, in a fury, her fiery red hair and now icy blue eyes were so attractive to him that it was all he could do to open his mouth.  
He was saved from having to respond by the master's assistant, who pulled a glimmering something out of Jack's pocket.  
"Is this it sir?" He asked exasperatedly, eager to get this done and over with. A blue diamond dangled from his thick fingers, throwing patches of light around the room.  
"That's it," Cal answered. Jack's eyes widened as his expression thinned. His voice, however, grew stronger. "This is horseshit!" He yelled, filling the whole room with his words. Rose looked shocked and hurt. Jack's insides turned. Oh God, he didn't want her to hurt. If anything, he longed to take away her pain.  
"Don't you believe it Rose, don't," he went on desperately. She looked from him to Cal and longed to throw herself into those strong, tan arms - for Jack to make everything go away.  
"He couldn't have," she murmured, her voice loudening.  
"Of course he could." Cal retorted, throwing a rehearsed look of disgust at the blonde-haired young man. "It's easy enough for a professional."  
"But he was with me the whole time - this is absurd," she continued furiously.  
As Jack shot questioning glances between the two, Cal leaned to whisper in Rose's ear. "Perhaps he did it while you were putting your clothes back on, dear."  
Rose shook with terror and shock. Jack, her Jack, would never do this to her. But what if her Jack wasn't the real man.just a pawn in the game for money.what if.  
Jack saw the battle going on behind her eyes. "Real slick Cal - Rose, they put it in my pocket," he murmured, his voice rising in panic.  
"Shut up!" Cal yelled. There was no way that this scoundrel was going to ruin his plan. But then Lovejoy came to the rescue.  
"Isn't even your pocket, is it son?" Lovejoy asked, patting the nametag in the collar. "Property of A.L. Ryerson," he stated as it was handed over to the assistant.  
"That was reported stolen today," the Master of Arms commented.  
Now Jack was pinned against a wall for something he hadn't done. "I just borrowed it. I was gonna return it." He was speaking to Rose, wanting to take the betrayal from his eyes. It was the truth. He had taken the jacket so that he would be admitted undetected into first class - the only sure way of talking to Rose.  
Cal seemed to find it all very funny. "Oh, an honest thief?" He mocked, laughing. "We have an honest thief, here do we?" The two strong men began to try to drag Jack away.  
"You know I didn't do this, Rose," he pleaded, looking deep into her eyes, the eyes that had met with his in the Renault, the eyes that had stared at his face during the forbidden drawing. "You know me."  
Painfully, Rose was aware for a split second that she did know, but then her mother held her back. She had broken her promise. Her mind was changed. With an aching heart, she watched the man she longed for be forced into the hallway.  
"C'mon now, there's a good lad," the officer tried to persuade.  
At the moment, however, nothing mattered more the Jack Dawson than convincing Rose that he loved her. How dare they try to make him out to be this evil?  
"Rose! Rose!" He yelled, trying to get her attention, trying to get her to meet his eyes. You know I didn't do it! You know me!"  
The door was shut firmly behind him, leaving Rose with a mix of emotions. There was guilt, shame, anger, pain, and something else she didn't want to identify. Not yet. The thing that hurt worst, though, was that she was trapped back in her prison with the very people she detested, and yet she could only think about the man who might have betrayed her. 


	4. Seperated

**I do not own these characters. READ AND REVIEW! I know everyone says that, but it'll make me decide whether or not I should continue my story (do you like or dislike?). So - R&R! **  
  
Ruth noticed that although Rose had become pale and cold, her cheeks were still warm and the sparkle was just starting to dim from her eyes. She didn't know what to do except leave.  
"Rose DeWitt-Bukater," she seethed, "This could ruin our family. The very thing we have worked so hard to build. How could you do - something - like that with - him?" Rose's mother whirled around and left the room, sobbing into her hands, her hair braided around her shoulders. The maids excused themselves to attend to her. Lovejoy also slipped out, to follow Jack below.  
Now Rose and Cal were alone.  
Cal's feelings of desire were immediately overwritten by his anger and fury at the events that he could guess had taken place with that gutter rat and his fiancée. He no longer had an ounce of love in his brain. He leaned against the door frame, trying to keep his composure, desperately wanting to take back this night. An affair in the Hockley family? Unspeakable.  
He walked over to her, intending to say, I hope he ruined you, but words wouldn't form in his throat. Automatically, his hand raised. Rose sighed and rolled her eyes, but didn't flinch as he slapped her with incredible force across her face. He grabbed her shoulders with an iron grip.  
"Oh, if it isn't the little slut, is it?" She didn't respond, awash with the memories of Jack's gentleness against the stinging blow of her husband-to-be. "You will look at me when I'm talking to you!" Cal screamed in madness.  
Rose suddenly feared for her life, and might have been injured much worse if her steward hadn't chosen that moment to stride into her suite.  
"Not now, we're busy," Cal fumed.  
"Mr. Hockley, sir, I've been asked to tell you to put on your lifebelts and - " the steward began.  
"I said not now," Cal shouted, releasing his hold on Rose in the slightest manner.  
"I am sorry sir, but it's Captain's orders. Now please, dress warmly, it's quite cold out tonight. And may I suggest top coats and hats." The man disappeared in the wardrobe, returning with two lifebelts and several coats. Cal looked at Rose as though it was her fault.  
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, rolling his eyes. She put a hand to her cheek, trying to cool the burn, as she sunk to the back of the sofa.  
"Not to worry, miss," the steward said, mistaking the hand for panic, "I'm sure it's just a precaution."  
Rose met his eyes. A precaution?  
  
Jack was hustled below to the crewmen's passage. After Rose had been out of earshot, he had just given up. Every few seconds he threw livid looks at Lovejoy, who ignored every single one but simply held Jack's arm tightly. The Master of Arms led him into a bland white room and handcuffed him around a pole. As he was jamming the key in the lock, yet another man in a woolen cap woven with the words "WHITE STAR LINE" raced into the room.  
"Sir," he gasped breathlessly, "They need you up at the second class purser's office. There's a big mob up there."  
The chief looked around helplessly, not willing to leave a "criminal" alone. Lovejoy, seeing his chance, took out his revolver from his pocket and smiled. "Go on," he breathed, his voice full of vengeance, "I'll keep an eye on him." Again the master hesitated, but with a click locked the handcuffs and mumbled, "Right." In two seconds he was out the door, moving with surprising speed for one so bulky.  
Lovejoy sat in a chair, crossed his legs, and laid the gun across his lap. He sat there, grinning at Jack, waiting.  
  
Rose stared uncomprehendingly as Trudy, her maid, helped her into her embroidered coat. Cal himself was dressing in the corner, but Rose paid him no mind. She was thinking of Jack, couldn't stop remembering him. Regret might have been a proper feeling at the moment, but she was experiencing something completely different. Why did these things happen to her? She had jeopardized everything that was her life and it had turned out to be all a lie.  
Or was it?  
Like someone had turned on a switch, she began to recall the words that had been spoken with such earnestness.  
They've got you trapped, Rose, and if you don't break free you're going to die! Maybe not right away because you're strong but - That fire that I love about you Rose.sooner or later that fire's gonna burn out.  
Could that possibly be spoken from a man who wanted to hurt her?  
As she was fumbling for the answer, her mother whisked into the room, ordered the maids with a few sparse commands, took her daughter's arm, and led her into the hallway. Cal followed.  
The cold, dead, murderous stares of her fiancée sent shivers to her bones as the suite was locked by Lovejoy. The only way Jack had ever looked at her was with raw, anguishing love, and she needed his gaze now more than anything.  
Before she knew it, she was in the main Grand Staircase Entrance, located on A - deck. The dome glistened above her, sparkling pearl even in the blackness of the night, reflecting the glimmers of thousands of electric lights.  
Jack, her heart cried, help me. Tell me the truth. She closed her eyes against a rush of tears, and when she opened them, she found herself staring at the back of Thomas Andrews.  
"Mr. Andrews!" She exclaimed, grabbing his coat as he started up the steps. He turned to face her, and she saw something that made her soul freeze. There was utter despair in his face. Terror, guilt, and sorrow lined the creases of his mouth.  
She swallowed as he watched her, dazed. She needed to know the answers. "I saw the iceberg," she continued, "and I see it in your eyes. Please tell me the truth."  
He considered her for a moment, looking her over to see if she was strong enough for the facts. Finally, he decided that she was and, taking her hands, led her back down to the landing. She watched him anxiously. "The ship - will sink," he answered softly.  
Rose's eyes widened. No, it couldn't be true. The Titanic couldn't sink. Of course she had heard and seen the iceberg, but nothing could happen to the Ship of Dreams.  
"You're certain?" She asked, her voice trembling with fear and shock. She felt as if the icy sea water was already creeping into her brain, numbing her mind with the cold, section by section.  
"Yes," he confirmed. "In an hour - or so - all this will be at the bottom of the Atlantic." His breathing had become rugged and drawn out. Rose's body was carved of stone. She could feel her own chest heaving with fear. If it was sinking - Jack wasn't safe.  
Jack.  
"What?" Cal had suddenly arrived at her elbow, and couldn't comprehend the words from the shipbuilder's mouth.  
"Please," Mr. Andrews continued, sweat beading on his forehead, "tell only who you must. I don't want to be responsible for starting a panic. And get to a boat quickly, don't wait. You - you remember what I told you 'bout the boats?" He met Rose's eyes, to make sure he had her word.  
"Yes," Rose mumbled. "Yes, I understand." She never promised to board a lifeboat. She still didn't grasp the events that had taken place, yet her mouth spoke an unsought response.  
He nodded, and the look of pain in his face eased a bit, but not enough to matter. Then he turned and hurried up the stairs, ushering passengers to hurry as he walked.  
She stared ahead as Cal's hand closed again over her arm and began to pull her to boat deck.  
  
Jack continued to watch Lovejoy, who rolled a bullet tauntingly down the desk beside him. The ship was at such a steep angle that the steel cylinder slipped down the wood and into the older man's palm. Finally, Lovejoy picked it up and thrust it into his revolver, grinning an evil smile.  
He waved the gun in the air. "You know," he said lightly, as if commenting on the weather, "I do believe this ship may sink." He paused and stood. "I've been asked to give you this - small - token of our appreciation."  
Suddenly Lovejoy was in front of him and without warning he felt a burning, splitting pain in his stomach as the pistol was launched into his middle, knocking the breath out of him. His lungs contracted, leaving him dizzy and light - headed.  
Somehow, through his anguish, he managed to make out the words, "Compliments of Mr. Caledon Hockley." Jack heard steps retreating from the room, but he did not turn to look. His eyes were squeezed in agony and he was bent over, groaning.  
He knew what the punch had been for. However, no matter how much anyone hurt him, he couldn't regret his love for Rose. 


	5. Trapped

**I do not own these characters. READ AND REVIEW! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! I REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHETHER OR NOT I SHOULD CONTINUE THIS STORY! IT DOES GO SOMEWHERE AFTER THE SINKING, I PROMISE!  
  
Rose was marched past crowds of other passengers, standing in huddles and talking like it was all some cruel joke.  
Only she knew it wasn't.  
Cal held her back and stopped her, so that she was pulled against him. She went rigid instantly at his touch, and threw herself away from his shoulder. There was only one shoulder she wanted to be near.  
Now, more than before, she felt the bitter cold of the night as she stood in line for a lifeboat. As the chill seeped through her coat, a dazzling white light lit up the sky. She lifted her face just in time to see orange embers burning above Titanic against a deep black sky.  
Distress rockets.  
The crew was becoming more desperate and exploding rockets into the air to attract nearby ships to come to the wounded liner's aid. White rockets always meant trouble at sea.  
"Any room for a gentleman, gentlemen?" Cal asked nervously, trying to get off the foundering ship.  
"Only women at this time sir," a crew member politely responded. Cal pretended to smile, and then melted back behind the wall of people to rejoin the DeWitt - Bukaters.  
"Will the lifeboats be seated according to class?" Rose's mother's voice appeared at her side. She turned to see the short woman with a hand raised in the air. "I hope they're not too crowded," Ruth went on.  
Although Cal smiled weakly, Rose's insides were shattered. Too crowded?! What did she mean, too crowded?! Praise God if they were too crowded! This wasn't the newest gown, or a new dollar bill. This was human lives!  
"Oh mother," she fumed, "shut up!" Her mother turned to her, shocked, as Rose grabbed her shoulders. "Don't you understand?" Rose cried, shaking her. "The water is freezing and there aren't enough boats. Not enough by half." She looked around, past Ruth's frantic eyes. "Half the people on this ship are going to die."  
As the light went out from her mother's face, Cal turned to sneer again at his bride-to-be. "Not the better half," he stated matter-of- factly. Stunned, Rose let go of her mother and turned to look at him. "You know," he went on, "it's a pity I didn't keep that drawing. It'll be worth a lot more by morning."  
Illumination from the ship's deck showed the burning anger in Rose's eyes as she stood, horrified, staring at the man next to her. "You unbelievable bastard," she whispered, sickened, her voice tremoring with emotion.  
Cal shrugged as Ruth stepped into the boat, sitting next to Molly Brown. "C'mon Rose darlin', there's plenty a room for you," Molly urged.  
Rose didn't notice. Her brain was throbbing with hurt. Suddenly, like all the other times in her life when choices mattered, the answer to her question was so clear that she felt blown over.  
Jack was innocent.  
It hit her without warning.  
She recognized the emotion that she had been trying to ignore since he had been taken away. She loved him, and because of their love they had been separated and he had been found guilty. Because he cared for her, he was now trapped in a sinking ship.  
What had she done?  
She couldn't let him die. She had to go to him. It was a physical need, to feel him against her, to let his arms hold her. She turned against her mother's pleads. The crewmen who had been extending his hand to help her board stood helplessly.  
Rose turned and began walking away, dazed and unaware of anything else going on around her.  
Vaguely, she heard her mother screaming, "Rose! Rose, come back here! Right now!" Of course, she didn't listen.  
Something grabbed her arm, a hard, steel hand. She was forced to turn and look into Cal's leering face. Oh God! There wasn't enough time.  
"Where are you going?" He asked in a rage. Abruptly, he noticed the lovestruck fires behind the irises of her eyes. "To him?" He roared, refusing to call that filth by name. "To be a whore for a gutter rat?"  
Now was the time to speak her mind. How dare he insult Jack, who was more of a man than he would ever be?  
"I'd rather be his whore than your wife," she breathed with death in her voice.  
His face contracted, and she saw the surprised, angry look he shot her. She didn't stay any longer, but turned and started hurrying away. She didn't go fast enough.  
"No! I said no!" Cal shouted and grabbed her elbows again. He began to shake her as she fought against him, grunting with the effort as passerby stared. She soon realized that although Jack was stronger than this man, her strength was far beaten. Using the only weapon she had, she hawked back all of her saliva and spit into Caledon Hockley's eye. Shocked, he let go of her to wipe his face. She turned and tore away from him, ignoring her mother's shrieks as she was separated from her daughter.  
Rose had to hurry. But, with fresh, numbing despair, she realized she had no idea where in the ship Jack was.  
  
Jack had recovered from the blow to his stomach and now stood straight again. He could hear a rushing sound, which he took to be water. Even though he couldn't see it yet, he knew the Titanic was sinking. The steepness of the floor beneath him was proof.  
"Help!" He shouted. "Can anybody hear me? Will someone help me? Please!" Of course, no one came.  
  
Where could Jack be? She tried to remember any hint that the Master of Arms could have given to where he was taking that man. No memory at all.  
Then another vision swirled into her head, one of Thomas Andrews with his notebook. He knew 'every rivet' in this ship. He could tell her.  
She began to race down the Grand Staircase, hurtling past people who were making their way upstairs, laughing. How could they laugh? It seemed a breach against humanity, against the world.  
Rose streaked on the marble floor and slipped into the hallways of the first class staterooms. She knew that the shipbuilder would be herding men, women, and children to the lifeboats.  
"Mr. Andrews!" She cried, staring desperately down the corridor. "Mr. Andrews!" She took off right, her breathing labored, until she turned again and saw him - walking quickly down the carpet, opening doors and calling those inside out on the boat deck.  
"Oh, Mr. Andrews, thank God!" She sighed, grabbing his lifevest in anxiety and looking into his eyes. Before he could say anything, she spilled out her question. "Where would the Master of Arms take someone under arrest?"  
He didn't understand how severely she needed this information. "What?" He asked. "Rose, you need to be gettin' to a boat right away!" Mr. Andrews began to try to walk her down the corner.  
"No!" She exclaimed. "I'm doing this with or without your help, sir, but without will take longer."  
He shook his head in worry and sighed, but then met her fear-filled gaze and finally answered. "Take the elevator all the way to the very bottom. Go down the crewmen's passage. Take a left, then a right, then go left again at the stairs. You'll come to a long corridor." She managed to absorb the information and fled without thanking him.  
  
Jack pressed his head against the cool steel of the pole he was chained to and sighed.  
"This could be bad," he mumbled.  
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a more obvious trickling sound filled his ears. He turned to the source of the noise and saw it - water was now streaming under the walls to him.  
"Oh shit!" He yelled. "Oh shit!" He climbed up the beam and pulled, trying to break the chain binding his hands together. It was of no avail.  
He looked helplessly at the icy, churning sea that seemed determined to swallow him.  
  
Rose flew past the Grand Staircase, shoving people out of her way. "Excuse me," she mumbled, out of breath. "Thank you."  
After what seemed like an eternity, she was in front of the elevators. A crisply uniformed crew member, however, stood blocking her way. She ran into him in her haste, trying to push him into the machine.  
"I'm sorry miss, but the lifts are closed," he declared firmly.  
Rose's heart pounded. There was only this man standing between her and Jack. She was not going to let him risk her love's life.  
"I'm through being polite, God damn it," she seethed, shoving him back. "Now take me down!" Frightened, the bellhop again shoved the lever down. "E-deck," Rose ordered as she closed the heavy iron doors.  
  
Jack was now up to his shins in sea. The water was rising incredibly fast and was extraordinarily cold.  
"Come on, come on, come on!" He shouted desperately, trying to slide his hands out of the cuffs. They wouldn't budge. His face turned red with effort, but in the end all he could do was turn and watch the ocean, dread in his eyes.  
  
Rose was breathing harder, fear outlining every exhale she made. By now, the man was calmer, but there was no conversation. She watched the floors flash by, unsure of what she would find. Was she too late? Oh God, if Jack was - no, she mustn't think that way.  
Water suddenly rushed into the lift, swirling and churning around her legs. She screamed, her worst fear confirmed.  
"I'm goin' back up!" Again, the bellhop moved to the lever.  
If anything, she now knew that she had to get to Jack as soon as possible. "No!" She cried, shoving him away from the controls and opening the doors. "No! No!"  
She stepped out of the elevator, wanting to gasp. It felt as if she was deep in ice, the cold was so piercing.  
"Miss! Come back!" She ignored the wild calls. "I'm goin' back up! I'm goin' back up!"  
Rose turned and watched as the sea was empty from the elevator while it began creaking to higher decks. She was alone.  
And so was Jack.  
The ghostly glow of water on the white walls made her skin even paler than it was with cold and fear.  
"Crewmen's passage, crewmen's passage," she muttered to herself. Her eyes caught a sign above a hallway that read CREW ONLY. "Crewmen's passage." She turned and began wading down the corridor.  
  
Now the water was seeping over the top of Jack's boots. Panic and terror flooded his mind as he clambered on the top of a desk.  
  
After making two turns, Rose found herself at the stairs. She managed to fight to the long hallway Mr. Andrews had directed her to. She gasped.  
The hallway took a right and a left. There were tens of doors. She had no idea which one her love was behind.  
"Jack!" She cried out. The lights flickered. Horror crept into her soul. How much time was left? "Jack! Jack!"  
  
Suddenly Jack stopped his struggle with his handcuffs. There was a sound, a beautiful sound, humming in his ears.  
"Jack!"  
He knew exactly who was calling his name.  
"Rose!" He bellowed.  
  
Rose eyes flew to every side of her, as she stood panic stricken. However, she suddenly heard a voice that made her insides go calm.  
"Jack!" She yelled. She began to follow the sound of her name and the banging of metal on metal.  
"Rose!" She heard. "I'm in here, Rose! I'm in here!"  
She ran against the current of the water until she was led to a door, which she shoved open.  
"Jack!" She cried again. After she shoved a stand out of her way, she saw him, standing on a desk, and the relief and love that flowed through her was indescribable.  
"Rose!" He whispered.  
"Jack! Jack!" She continued to exclaim until her arms were around him. Feeling his body pressed to hers was a balm to her soul. "Oh God! Oh God! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" She kissed him, putting her hands at the back of his blonde hair so she could pull him to her. She allowed his tongue to again dip in her mouth as she let love take her over.  
When the kiss broke, Jack looked at her. "That guy Lovejoy put it in my pocket!" What hurt Rose most was the pain in her eyes, the pain that she had caused.  
"I know! I know!" She cried and hugged his neck. He enjoyed the moment for as long as he could. The ship was sinking fast, and he needed to get her out of here.  
"Listen, Rose, you're gonna have to find a spare key, alright? Look over there in that cabinet. It's a little silver one, Rose."  
She managed to break herself from him and make her way to the wooden cupboard Jack was nodding his head to. She opened the glass door anxiously and began to frantically run her hands over the sets of keys. They knocked against the solid back and tinkled as she raced down every row.  
"Silver, silver, silver - " she muttered. Then, with hysteria in her voice, she cried, "These are all brass ones!"  
Jack however, was not going to become frenzied, for her sake. He had to get her out of the bowels of this floating palace. He would never forgive himself if he caused her death.  
"Check right here Rose," he softly suggested, now tilting his head to the desk where Lovejoy had last been. She ran to it and pulled out a drawer, not concerned with anything except freeing her love.  
It was while she was ransacking through the papers and tools inside it that Jack finally built up the courage to ask her the question that had been racing through his mind. "Rose," he began.  
At the sound of his voice saying her name, Rose automatically froze and spun to look at him.  
"How'd you find out I didn't do it?"  
Finally, a smile washed over Rose's chalky face. "I didn't," she chattered. "I just realized I already knew."  
He allowed her answer to flow over him. She trusted him, she knew him. She had come back from her own decision.  
It was then that he felt water swirling around his knees.  
"Keep lookin'," he reminded her, trying to point his chained hands at the desk.  
"Oh!" She exclaimed tearfully and went back to tearing through the desk. Jack watched her, nervously, as the seconds ticked by. If it came to it, he would tell Rose to leave him, that'd he be alright. Of course he wouldn't, and she'd know it, and she wouldn't leave. He prayed to God that she could get him out of there before that time arrived.  
"No key!" She whispered, fear etching her voice. "There's no key!"  
Oh God, Jack thought. Oh God please. Get us out of here.  
When he spoke, he was calm again. "Alright. Rose, you're gonna have to find some help." He paused and looked deep into her sapphire-jade eyes. "It'll be alright."  
Rose looked down at the sea. It would not be alright. It would not, that is, unless she trusted Jack.  
She turned and waded to him. "I'll be right back," she said, and then kissed him for as long as she could before turning and whooshing from the room.  
"I'll just wait here!" He called after her. 


	6. In the Depths of a Titan

**I do not own these any of these characters. Read and review! I am anxiously awaiting e-mails.***  
  
Jack's heart pounded. His mind was whirling. It was more than the extreme cold that was scrambling his senses. He would give anything to survive this freezing hell with Rose DeWitt-Bukater, but their chances were looking more and more slim.  
  
Rose's breathing was unsteady and broken with terror as she pushed herself back up the hallway, looking around and around for a person to rescue the two of them. No one else would be down in the water-filled sections of the liner.  
She grabbed the railings of the metal staircase she had turned at earlier and hauled herself up, the wet dress clinging to her like another skin. Drops rained from her and fell to the slippery floor beneath her.  
"Hello?" She cried, desperate for another human to here her. There was no answer. She began to run down the hallways of steerage.  
"Hello? Is there anyone down here? We need help! Hello?"  
Not another voice returned her cries. "Damn it," she mumbled to herself and turned another way.  
Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her. She whirled around and saw a bearded older man running frantically down the corridor. A cap was placed at an erratic angle on his head.  
"Oh, thank God," she breathed, slowing down. He ran into her. "I need your help." She realized that he was shaking his head.  
"Nein, nein!" He exclaimed in a different tongue. He began to race past here.  
"There's a man back here and - wait!" It was too late. He was gone down the narrow passageway.  
"Hello?" She called hopelessly, dragging her feet. Suddenly the lights flickered again. This time they stayed out for almost a minute. Rose sagged against the wall, her breathing loud and rapid. God, she thought, how will I get back to him?  
A warm glow filled the halls again. She began to mumble rapid prayers of thanks in her head.  
"Hello?" Her voice was so weak now everything in her trembled. Oh, what she wouldn't give for this all to be a dream, for her to waken in Jack's arms, for it to be a new day.  
Again, the scurrying sound of footsteps broke her out of her thoughts. She turned and felt her hope rekindle. A steward was bustling towards her.  
"Oh, miss, you shouldn't be here right now," he said hurriedly. He took her arm and began to drag her to an exit to boat deck.  
"Wait!" No way was this man going to drag her from Jack Dawson. "I need your help. There's a man back here and he's trapped - "  
"Come along. No need to panic."  
"I'm not panicking! You're going the wrong way!"  
It was the last thing she could handle. After all she had gone through - after all she and Jack had done - death was not going to break their romance. It just wasn't happening.  
"Let go of me! LISTEN!" She screamed and balled her small, perfect hand in a fist. Before the steward could guess what she was doing, she had punched him so hard in the nose that he was forced backwards, blood streaming from his face.  
She leaned against the wall, chest heaving. What had she done?  
The man looked at her. "The hell with you," he softly exclaimed before turning and hurrying away.  
She groaned in despair and closed her eyes. NO! She would not give up on Jack; she was simply not going to do it. He needed her so bad.  
Once she had gathered her strength, her emerald eyes opened again. The first thing they saw was what she needed.  
An ax.  
It would have to do. She was running out of time.  
She turned and flew down the hall, her dress waving behind her. Finally, she stopped in front of the staircase.  
The sea had risen and was now lapping on one of the top steps. She inched to the waterline.  
"Oh my God," she whispered, horror lining every syllable of her words. Was it possible that Jack was still alive? Was it possible God was listening to her?  
She took a deep breath and quickly removed her embroidered coat, throwing it behind her. A blue light was reflecting on her face. She laid the ax along the top bars above the door while she slowly slipped into the water and gasped. It was so cold! She felt surrounded in ice. Like Jack had said, she was thinking only of the pain, the pain and reaching him. Her arm wrapped around a beam across the top of the ceiling. She picked up the ax again and edged along the pole, lifting the elbow, moving it further along, and pulling herself further toward where Jack was.  
Because of the tilt of Titanic, the water was becoming shallower the higher she went. Finally, she could stand. The sea suddenly entered her dress. She screamed silently, but lifted the ax above her head and waded into the room.  
"Jack!" She cried. Jack almost gasped upon looking at her. She was ghostly white and purple, shivering and chattering with the extreme chill. He looked no better, his blonde hair hanging damp in his eyes, his pants and boots soaking.  
"Will this work?" She asked, holding up a red ax with shaking hands. Oh God, he hoped so.  
"I guess we'll find out," he mumbled, stretched his hands across the steel pole.  
Rose made her way unsteadily over to him and hoisted it to her shoulder.  
"Wait! Try a couple of practice swings over there!" She seemed relieved for a sparse moment as raced over to the wardrobe in the corner. She swung hard into the wood. The blade chopped the surface.  
"Good!" Jack exclaimed. "Now try to hit the same mark again, Rose, you can do it!"  
Mounted by Jack's encouragement, she attempted to slam it again in the exact place she had a moment ago.  
When she lifted the ax again, she saw that cut she had made was at least two feet from the first one. She began to tremble. She couldn't do this.  
"Ok, that's enough practice." Jack's voice was so calm. How could he be so peaceful?  
She hesitantly waded back over to him and hoisted the ax.  
"Wait!" Jack cried. "Open your hands up a little bit more." He tried to show her, but the chain prevented him.  
Rose parted her fingers. "L...like that?" She mumbled. Her complexion had turned to color of pale slate. She shivered with cold and fear.  
"Yeah," he answered. "Just hit it really fast and really hard." Then he exhaled a deep breath. He gazed deep into her jade eyes. She looked back into his enchanting blue ones. "Listen Rose," he whispered, "I trust you."  
Oh God, he trusted her. She was going to hurt him - she knew it. She had no idea what she was doing.  
He moved his head to the other side of the beam and stretched his hands out across the metal pole. His eyes squeezed shut. "Go!" He cried.  
  
She closed her eyes as well. No! Her head screamed as she pulled the ax back and swung it fiercely down.  
"TRING!"  
The earsplitting sound of metal against metal screeched across the room as Rose yanked the ax away. Jack noticed no pain - and slowly opened his eyes. She did the same.  
By a miracle, Rose had separated Jack's handcuffs.  
He whooped and cried with surprise, pulling the now laughing Rose into his arms.  
"You did it!" He happily exclaimed. "You - you did it!" His hands entangled in her hair as, without further delay, he jumped deep into the water.  
"Oh shit this is cold," he gulped, the iciness penetrating his bones. "Oh shit! Shit shit shit!  
Still smiling, Rose grabbed his arm and began pulling him to the door, still aware that the time Mr. Andrews had given her was running out.  
They waded into the hallway. Jack let go of her hand and shook his long blonde hair out of his eyes. Down a few paces, sparks exploded into the sea and the electric lights rumbled.  
"This is the way out!" Rose cried. There was no possible way to get past that mass of boiling fire - they were trapped. She was about to fall to the ground and allow herself to die.  
"We'll have to find another way." Amazingly, Jack was still extremely composed. She turned to him, leaning against his shoulder. "Come on!" His voice rose to be heard over the pounding of rushing water. They both turned and struggled against a fairly mild current, fighting for their lives, their love, their destinies.  
"C'mon Rose, only a little bit more!" Jack basically lifted the shivering girl in his arms, trying to turn a corner. The sea was streaming by them faster now, and he was having a hard time putting one icy foot in front of the other. "You can do it!" He tried to keep positive, but it was becoming harder and harder.  
Then he saw it - a metal staircase, leading to higher ground. It was roped off, but that didn't deter him in the least. He managed to somehow carry her to the stairs and set her gently on a step.  
At the end of the corridor the stairs led to, there was a single door, with the words "EMERGENCIES ONLY" inscribed on a golden plate above it. Jack grimaced as he felt water beginning to again swirl around his feet. If there was ever an emergency onboard a ship, this was it.  
He took Rose's hand and led her to the doorway, his breathing already slowing. He would see she got safely on a lifeboat and then fight the ocean alone. He refused to endanger her. For Rose DeWitt-Bukater, the terror on the Titanic was almost over.  
He had no idea it was just the beginning. 


	7. To Higher Grounds

**I do not own these any of these characters. Sorry about the delay! While you are at the bottom of the page, go ahead and click that button and send me a review.**  
  
Rose followed him, tired and wet, across the already slippery floors. Her heart pounded - they would be stuck down here forever, in a dying ship, until they too were claimed by the ocean's fury. She wrapped her hands around his arm, so fearful were her thoughts. Jack turned, looked at her, and kissed her on the cheek. Then he faced they door, grabbed the doorknob, turned, and ---  
Nothing happened.  
The door was locked.  
Jack swore back and forth, only quieting when he saw the fear in Rose's eyes. Emergencies only? For God's sake, they leave the door locked on a sinking ship? There was no other way to go. Water was creeping closer to them, already having filled the hall below. There was only this one, lone, exit, which really proved to be a trap.  
He paced for a minute and suddenly stilled as Rose fell against him in despair. She was counting on him - on him! - and he had to get her out of here alive. He owed her that.  
Suddenly the sounds of voices on the other side of the door startled him.  
"Alright, now, take your luggage. Keep together! I got enough problems without the lot of you gettin' more lost."  
Someone was there. With the other side was freedom. Hope was rekindled in that instant. He examined the doorknob. There was no earthly way to unlock it - he would have to break down the door.  
"Rose," he whispered, "Go stand back. Please. I'm gonna get us outta here." She stepped back.  
Jack turned sideways against the door and took a deep breath; letting the strong feeling of need - the need to get Rose out of this place alive - gave him strength.  
"One, two, three!" He shouted and threw himself against the door, his shoulder banging into the hard surface. He felt the pain for a split second, and then relief as he fell through the splinters of the hard wood. Rose took his hand, smiling. He had saved her again.  
They were now in a higher section of steerage, with the same white walls and white tile floors, but no water. Not yet.  
Jack led Rose to the left and glanced down the hallway. There was nothing except more people streaming towards them.  
"Here, what do ya think your doin'?" A steward behind them asked furiously. The lovers ignored him and turned right, locking their hands tighter in their stubbornness to survive.  
The steward, however, wouldn't give it a break. "You'll have to pay for that ya know. That's White Star Line property!"  
White Star Line property? WHITE STAR LINE PROPERTY! The entire ship would be at the bottom of the sea in a bit more than an hour! Who gave a damn about a door?  
Jack and Rose both turned around. "Shut up!" They shouted in unison and then continued to hurry down the corridor. They didn't notice the man's shocked expression at their words.  
They began to hear distant yelling and protests further on ahead. Curiously, they broke into a run, Rose's damp dress flying behind them and whipping around corners.  
Soon they realized the source of the problem. A crowd of third class passengers stood on the main stairwell, crying out. Obviously, there was a gate beyond the throng and everyone was trapped.  
Everyone. Was. Trapped.  
Jack tried to push his way through a row of men to get a better glimpse of what was going on, but was shoved backwards into Rose, who was visibly shaking with panic.  
He opened his mouth to say something when he saw a head of curly sand- colored hair and recognized his friend.  
"Jack!"  
"Tommy! Can we get out?"  
"It's hopeless that way!"  
"Well whatever we do we gotta do it fast." The words were barely out of Jack's mouth when he turned and saw a dark-haired, brown-eyed man sifting towards him.  
"Jack!" Fabri yelled.  
"Fabrizio!"  
He hadn't thought he would ever see his friend again. They embraced swiftly, patting each other on the back. Fabrizio nodded to Rose and then turned back to Jack.  
"The boats, they are all gone!" His hands moved with his desperation. His face was lined with disbelief. His accent was thick with fear.  
"Listen, we gotta get out of here. This whole place is flooded." Jack had been in that water and could feel it clinging to his clothes.  
"There's nienté this way!" Fabrizio again waved his arms.  
"Alright. Alright, let's go this way!" Rose felt herself being pulled by Jack and hurried after him, still shivering from the cold.  
All four of the strangely mixed group, one poor, one wealthy, one Italian, and one Irish, ran along the white floors, united by their anxiousness and, in one case, love.  
They reached a fork in the path, in which Jack stopped and hesitated. He had never ventured this far within the ship. He had stayed near his cabin and had never wanted to go anywhere else - other than to be with Rose.  
"Come on!" Tommy yelled anxiously. Jack could hear the raw terror lining his voice. However, he was unsure of which way to turn. Finally, at the sight of a few stragglers to the right of him, he made up his mind.  
"No come on, let's go this way!" Rose followed him instantly, without a second's hesitation, and the others turned after them. Her grip on his hand grew tighter as the fear welling in her heart grew. Why did this ship have to be so damn big? They were lost, truly, honestly lost, and she was suddenly hit by the realization that if they couldn't escape the ship's depths they would die, all together, all down in this prison of a maze, all in the pain and ice and cold. They had outrun the water for the moment, but how long would it be until they were engulfed by it? How long could they last?  
Jack held her nearer to his body, steering her around the corners and turns and twists. He could hear something, an extremely faint sound of human voices, other than the foreign sounds of his fellow steerage passengers as they frantically tried to find their way to safety.  
A blanket lay on the ground, a piece of luggage abandoned at the door by its owner. He could feel Rose shivering against him and knew she was absolutely freezing. With one quick, nonstop movement, he wrapped it around her shoulders and began rubbing her arms to keep her warm. The shaking didn't stop, but was eased somewhat.  
Finally, the voices became louder, more distinct, and he was able to see a flight of stairs, smaller than the ones they had just been at, yet still blaring with the thought of release. Jack sighed with relief and began to lead Rose up the steps.  
Then he realized something.  
There was a gate, and it was locked.  
Again, a metal gate stood in their path. A steward behind it was calmly trying to reassure about ten other men and women who were insisting that they be let free.  
"Go back down to the main stairwell. It'll all get sorted out there," he was saying at the moment.  
An Irish man leaned against the frame. "Hell it will," he rumbled.  
Jack pushed his way through the small crowd, his handcuffs still clanking around his wrists.  
"Open the gate," he demanded.  
"Go back down to the main stairwell," the steward protested.  
"Open the gate right now!" Knowing it was meaningless, he pointed his index finger right at the white suit on the crew member.  
"Go back to the main stairs like I told you!"  
Everyone's hope was deflated from their lungs like a balloon. Jack turned, sadly, ready to give up.  
Before he could resign himself, he saw Rose.  
She looked awful. Her skin was getting paler by the minute while her white hands clutched her woolen wrap. She was gasping for air and she looked absolutely exhausted. The blazing fire that had been burning in her eyes hours ago was now reduced to faintly glowing coals that were ready to blow out.  
Inside, Jack moaned in despair. She was about to quit. If she quit, she would die. He didn't have any strength left, and without her will, she couldn't survive. He didn't have the heart to watch her do that to herself.  
Who was this skinny wimp; to stop them after all they had been through, right when Rose was almost safe? No, he was not going to let this happen. Suddenly, as if it had never been gone, his temper returned in a blur of heat and light.  
"God damn it, son of a bitch!" He screamed as he whirled around and grabbed the gate bars, rattling the steel so hard that the frame trembled.  
  
"Stop that!" The steward continuously cried. "Stop that!"  
Rose looked amazed at this sudden burst of energy that had entered her love as Jack turned and, seeing everything in a red haze, threw himself at a wooden bench on the floor, pulling and straining, trying to lift it from where it was firmly fixed to the tiles.  
"Fabri, Tommy, give me a hand here!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Fabrizio De Rossi and Tommy Ryan were on his either side, tearing as hard as he, until, with a loud rip, the bench was yanked loose from its hold.  
Rose was shoving people to the walls, crying, "Move aside! Move aside! Move aside!" as the steward's helper deserted him, leaving the one uniformed man alone and defenseless.  
As the last woman was scattered out of their path, Jack, Fabrizio, and Tommy lifted the bench higher and turned it to the exit.  
"One, two, three!" Jack bellowed. The three men rammed wood into steel, slamming their tool into the gate.  
"Again! One, two, three!" This time, the gate was ripped clean off its right hinges. It lay deformed and bent as they streamed out of it. Fabrizio jumped out first, his limb body swinging flexibly over the bench, which lay in the way. Jack followed as Tommy helped Rose out from behind. When she was close enough, Jack swung her down. "Let's go, Rose," he muttered, his face turning a lighter shade of red. Fabrizio pushed her ahead, concerned for her safety.  
"You can't go there! You can't go there!" The steward yelled frantically, hopping from one foot to the other.  
Bloody Christ, Tommy thought angrily. They were already "going there." With a lack of patience, Tommy balled his fist and smacked the man so hard in the jaw that he fell over. Satisfied, the Irishman hurried to follow his companions.  
As they twisted their way up the stairs, Rose smiled at the man beside her, who managed to grin back. She felt her knees buckling at that face, especially as he turned and kissed her. He picked her up in his arms and continued to move while their lips met again and again. Finally, he set her down as she dreamily went behind him. Nothing could go wrong on a night like this, could it? 


	8. Not Without You

**I do not own these any of these characters. Reviews are NEEDED, not just welcomed.**  
  
Soon her legs began to ache. She seemed to be climbing on and on, up and up, for what seemed like an eternity. Everything throbbed - her head, her body, her heart. Fabrizio stood beside her, mumbling in Italian. "Ragozzo mia, mama voncola? Dio mia andiamo! Aspetta!" Jack, who could speak Italian pretty well, shot his swearing friend a long, low stare. Fabri shook his head and made a face, but was silent. He was angry. He wasn't sure who he was angry with. Not Jack or Rose, or Tommy for that matter. Nor himself. No, it was someone else, something else. The stupid iceberg, which had threatened to throw him out of his top bunk and had obviously gashed the hull, the ship officers, who had not tried hard enough to avoid the crash, the sea, which was streaming into Titanic, and - well - Fabrizio was just angry.  
He and Jack were good men. Although they lived on the streets, they never participated in the drunkenness and the taking advantage of women that others did. They worked hard for their money, both of them, taking odd jobs around cities that no one else wanted. What had they done to deserve this night?  
Everyone else was still in denial, yet Fabrizio De Rossi knew what was happening, and he knew that the situation was deadly. Yet what good did it do to curse the innocent and nature itself? No matter whom he was angry at, Titanic would go right on sinking and lives would go right on ending. He damned up his heated thoughts and began a desperate prayer to God and his Saints, those who his mother had imposed on him.  
Jack was sharing some of Fabrizio's misery. He knew two things - the water was cold and the ship wasn't gonna hold up forever. As he glanced at the beautiful girl next to him, his heart pounded louder and louder until he was holding his breath to keep her from hearing it. He was going to get her outta here. Rose DeWitt - Bukater was gonna survive. Whether or not there was any hope to him didn't even cross his mind.  
Tommy allowed himself to climb the stairs, but he stopped his emotions. No feeling, no fear was his way of looking at it, and he choose to keep it that way. Just get to the boat deck, don't think. Step, step, step. Again and again and again. Like he was already lifeless, he forced himself up.  
Suddenly they were at a flimsy door with a small porthole nailed into it. Jack threw himself against it, not bothering with the knob, and fell into the icy cold air of the outside. A frozen, cleansing feeling hit his lungs. He looked up briefly at the sky and almost gasped. There were so many millions and billions of stars, all of them shining down on the wounded Titanic as if eager to lend their light to the disaster scene. Not that it would do any good, but it was reassuring to see some symbol of hope towering over the foreboding symbol of an icy death.  
"The boats are all gone!" Rose cried aloud, sending shrieks of panic through her body. No boats. Without the lifeboats, none of them stood a chance. Not that they stood that much of a chance with one.  
Jack looked right, then left. Rose was right. There were no boats in sight, not on either side. Yet the Titanic was so long, he couldn't know for sure. He didn't allow it to dash his need to get Rose to safety.  
As he grabbed his love's hand again and turned to run, he was suddenly jerked to a stop. Rose was talking with one of the people in her social class, someone whom she addressed with slight respect but little patience.  
"Colonel," she struggled, "are there any boats on that side?" His shock at seeing Rose with Jack Dawson and his friends was erased when he heard the terrified tone of her voice.  
"No, miss, but there are a couple of boats all the way forward," he answered, pointing to the starboard side. "This way, I'll lead you."  
However, getting the directions they needed, the group was not interested in sticking around any longer. With Jack and Rose leading the way, Tommy and Fabrizio ran behind, their bodies mixing with the other throngs of passengers, trying to sight the nearest set of lifeboats. They were shoved and pushed to and fro, but, with their expert feet, did not loose balance. Rose, however, had both hands tight around Jack's arm to save herself from falling.  
Tommy passed four men standing on the deck, each with a heavily polished wooden instrument, two he recognized to be violins. Why were they playing music? What kind of twisted person would be a wantin' comfort on a night like this?  
"Music to drown by," he huffed sarcastically. "Now I know I'm in first class." Fabrizio turned to him and shook his head, his ever-present smile even now playing on his lips. As the ragtime faded away, it was replaced by new sounds - yelling, shouting, frightened screams. They had reached the boats.  
The nearest officer, Officer Lightoller, was trying to bellow over the crowds, to calm them. A huge crowd of men, women, and children had surrounded this tiny lifeboat. A distress rocket again lit up the air as Jack realized just how desperate the situation was. Rivers of orange and red embers flowed to the wooden deck as the whiter sparks faded off into the empty night. Now the sea was clearly visible beneath them, illuminated green from the Titanic's faithful lights.  
Officer Lightoller, now in a desperate attempt to capture everyone's attention, lifted a small handgun and fired two shots quickly into the air. There were shrieks of surprise and the noise level lowered a bit.  
"Keep calm!" The crew members yelled, knocking off chains and peeling the canvas covering off the boat like one peels an orange. After the davits were cranked in, they began to prepare to hook up the falls.  
Jack understood how slim the chances were that Rose would even be on this lifeboat before it became overcrowded. He was determined to get her off this ship, but he couldn't leave her. As he tightened his grip around Rose's shoulders to try to ease her panic, he turned to Tommy and Fabrizio. "You two go check the other side," he whispered softly, trying not to let his love overhear him. They stared at him uncomprehending for a second. "Go!" Jack raised his voice. Finally, they turned and pushed their way out of the swarm and back on the deck, panting.  
Rose gasped at the sight of so many people milling around, pale and white and terrified. I must look like that, she thought. We all must look like that. Once we get in a lifeboat, who knows if we're even going to be picked up? She immediately felt ungrateful. It's better than being in that icy water. Do you hear that, all those who said this was the safest ship in the world? Titanic is sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic.  
Suddenly, the cries of a child near her awoke her from her daze. She turned slightly and saw a little blonde-haired girl hanging onto her father for dear life. "Here, give her to me," Officer Lightoller ordered.  
"Daddy!" The little girl broke into tears as she was torn away from her father's chest.  
"Take her!" The officer yelled and dumped her into her mother's arms. Her sister sat beside her and both started to cry.  
"Daddy, get in the boat," the red-haired one sobbed, her tears making tracks down her face.  
The father seemed to gasp for air and Rose could tell the heart- wrenching farewell was tearing him as much as his family. Even the wife was now struggling in a loosing battle not to spill over. "It's goodbye for a little while, only for a little while. There'll be another boat for the daddies; this one is for the mommies and the children. You hold mommy's hand and be good little girls."  
The red-haired girl shook her head and fell into the arms of her mother, crying so hard her shoulders rocked. Her sister also began to weep, but couldn't tear her eyes from her father. It was almost as if, even though they couldn't be more than six or seven, they knew somewhere deep down that there was not another boat and they would never see him again. It was almost as though they had some knowledge of the painful death their papa faced. She shifted her jade blue eyes in front of her.  
The painful death all the men faced.  
Until now, it hadn't hit Rose that Jack wouldn't be going with her. She had thought they would both board the lifeboat and huddle together to keep warm until help arrived.  
Women and children only.  
Jack Dawson was neither a woman nor a child, and she knew that even if he had the chance to escape his sense of selflessness would persevere his fear. She realized that she would be forced to leave him on this death trap, without any means of escape.  
No.  
After all they had been through tonight, from the fires of love to the ice of fear, she refused to get into that boat alone.  
She turned to him and pressed her palms against his chest. She said her heart in five words.  
"I'm not going without you."  
Jack's insides twisted. This had been what he was afraid of. He would not let her endanger her life for him, not her perfect, wonderful life.  
"No! You have to go!"  
"No Jack." Although she hated to hurt him like this, she simply would not be separated from him. The pain in both of their faces was as evident as the dawn.  
"Get on the boat, Rose," he whispered, trying to win her over.  
She shook her head again. "No Jack."  
"Yes!" Rose DeWitt - Bukater was going to survive if it was the last thing he did. He started to gently push her to the lifeboat. "Get on the boat!"  
She had opened her mouth to again say No Jack! when the words died in her throat.  
"Yes, get on the boat, Rose." Caledon Hockley appeared out of no where by Jack's shoulders, throwing him a dirty glance before shoving him away and transferring it to his fiancée.  
They both stared at the rumpled looking tycoon, angry and shocked. This man - who had tried to pull them apart - was trying to convince Rose to save herself? What was it for? The beauty of his wife, perhaps?  
Rose had made a decision that night that she was no longer the girl who had boarded this ship with Cal. She was now a woman who disembarked with Jack Dawson, whether by emergency or by normal routine.  
"My God, look at you, you look a fright!" Cal exclaimed. He stripped the blanket from Rose's shoulders and crumpled it into a wad. "Here," he mumbled with disgust and threw it into Jack's arms. Removing his overcoat, he wrapped it around Rose's shoulders. She looked at Jack helplessly, her eyes begging for assistance, but he was frozen watching this man touch the love of his life. In that moment, he knew first hand what hate was.  
"Come," Cal continued, trying to pull Rose to him and stroke her hair. It was then Jack woke from his stupor. How dare this man - who had tried to make him out to be a thief, who had tried to make Rose distrust him, who had tried to throw away everything they now based their lives upon, who had threatened this beautiful girl for months - how dare he even go near something as precious as Rose?  
Now it was his turn to push Cal out of the way as he regained his place in front of the one he adored. Her eyes turned immediately warm with relief, but froze again when she heard Jack's words.  
"Go on, get on. I'll get the next one," he urged. He wasn't stupid. There was no "next one" and he knew it. But he would do anything to get this girl off of Titanic. He loved her so much - he didn't know what he would do if he was responsible for hurting her.  
Little did he know that a parting would hurt Rose more than any ocean or sea ever could.  
She gazed deeper at him, searching his face. "No," she pleaded rubbing through his shirt and suspenders to warm him. "Not without you!" Neither was aware of Cal's impatient presence.  
"Listen, I'll be fine. I'm a survivor, alright? Don't worry about me!" He was now virtually begging her, but he didn't care. As long as she got off. He knew that it pained her to leave him, so he was trying to make it easier. Still, she had to go and he wouldn't take no for an answer.  
"I - I've made an arrangement with an officer on the other side of the ship," Cal reappeared. He was trying to ignore the man whom Rose was clinging so desperately to, but in order to get his prize fiancée out onto that lifeboat he was going to have to mend their differences. Or pretend to.  
"Jack and I can get off safely," he went on. His gaze swept to the gutter rat, who was staring at him angrily, his arms around Rose. "Both of us."  
In Jack's heart of hearts, he knew Cal was lying. His face flickered with doubt, fear, and contempt for just a second. He knew there was no time, and he knew that the only way Rose would get on a boat was if she thought he was safe. Her will was as strong as iron.  
He put on a mask of reassurance and looked straight into Rose's sapphire jade eyes. "See? I got my own boat to catch."  
Jack's words half convinced her more than any of Cal's ever could, but Rose was still unsure of what to do. She looked at Jack more desperately for his thoughts. He nodded towards the boat.  
"Better hurry," Cal sighed, slow and calm, yet he was gulping for his words. "Almost full."  
"Step aboard, miss!" Sixth Officer Wilde shouted above the noise of the crowd. He held out his gloved hand. Confused, dazed, and shocked, Rose automatically took it, only to realize she was being pulled away from Jack. She looked helplessly behind her as her love assisted her over the gap between Titanic and the boat. She slipped and dropped onto the wooden, unstable keel. Jack's hand fell from her waist, but before he could pull it back she grasped it in her own, refusing to let go, knowing if she did the realization of what was happening would hit her. He looked up at her and squeezed her fingers tighter, telling her goodbye without meaning to.  
"Clear the rail, please!" Officer Wilde now yelled as he shoved Jack from the edge of the ship, tearing the two lovers apart. With the force of the movement, Rose fell back into a seat and immediately felt what she had feared. She had just lost a part of herself, the part that was truly who the new Rose was. She longed to throw herself back into Jack's arms. Without warning, an evil thought was bestowed in her head. Would she ever be in those arms again?  
"And lower away!" A command was bellowed, the knots were untied, the chains undone. Soon the davits began to creak as the ropes holding the lifeboat were let down. She was being taken away. Terrified, she looked at Jack. Horror, fear, hurt, and love echoed from her expression as she glanced around her vulnerably and then shifter her gaze back up.  
Jack would give anything to take that look away from her. He could hear her heart breaking as she was moved farther and farther from him. Although his breath was now coming in awkward, rapid gasps, he managed to nod to her, to let her know she was doing the right thing. He didn't want her to feel guilty about getting to safety, or to feel pain about leaving him. All he wanted was to get her off of this closing death trap.  
She seemed so hurt. Oh God, he prayed, take away her pain. Let us both live. If it's my time - I can deal with it. But not hers. Please, please, not hers. Take me instead.  
"You're a good liar." Again, Cal's voice suddenly appeared at his shoulder. Caledon Hockley was also looking down at the beautiful woman in the boat, but what knifed his insides was that she wasn't even giving passing notice to him. She was only staring at that boyish man beside him.  
"Almost as good as you," Jack replied, never varying his gaze. He saw Cal nod out of the corner of his eye. "There's, uh, there's no arrangement, is there?" He went on, knowing what the answer was.  
"Oh, there is." Cal seemed to be struggling for words. It was strange to be standing next to his enemy. "Not that you'll benefit much from it." Here they did look at each other, maintaining eye contact. "I always win, Jack, one way or another," he continued, letting a false smile hide his uncertainty and fear.  
Jack's mind comprehended this last sentence and his vision swept back to his love, overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. It wasn't fair that a man like Caledon Hockley got to get off this sinking ship and go to Rose while he stayed behind and struggled to survive. Suddenly, he felt guilty for his selfish thoughts. At least Rose was safe and off the Titanic. At least he had been granted that much.  
Back down in the continuously lowering lifeboat, Rose's gaze never left Jack's. One question was whipping through her mind like the wind at sunset. What am I doing? The answer pierced her like an arrow.  
I am leaving the love of my life on a doomed ocean liner, facing certain, painful death, while I escape. There are not enough lifeboats and the water is freezing. If I am not there to push him forward, he will die. He. Will. Die.  
The devastation that wrecked agony through her body at the moment was indescribable. In her complete confusion, she had somehow accepted that Cal would make sure Jack got off Titanic to be with her for an eternity. She had boarded a boat, alone. She knew that Cal would never help a man who was competing with him, especially a man not from the "better half." And now she was leaving him. Again, in order to understand her thoughts, she had to sort them out.  
She. Was. Leaving. Him.  
Water that wouldn't spill gathered in her eyes. After the spoken dialogue between the two men that Rose couldn't hear, she knew that she was saying goodbye. It was written by the hopelessness in Jack's face. Cal would never help a man who was competing with him, especially a man not from the "better half."  
Her eyes swept to the right. Beside her, the two little girls from moments ago sat on their mother's lap, who had finally surrendered to her tears and was now weeping openly. Two little hands thrust themselves in the air, as the sisters waved to their father, who was stranded on deck. Their faces were so wet that strands of hair stuck to their cheeks. They were screaming with a child's grief, knowing that they would be forced to grow without the man that they loved in their life.  
How could she live without Jack?  
As the sounds faded away, she glanced up to the davits and saw Officer Wilde moving his hands in slow motion, shouting something to the crew members, symbolizing the tearing of her heart. Not being able to stand it anymore, she desperately turned back to Jack, the terror in her eyes as bright as sunshine.  
He stood above her, both hands on the rail. Gulping, he nodded, his enchanting blue eyes begging, Rose, it's alright. Just go.  
As she watched his face, another white distress rocket burst into the cold air above, dazzling and glimmering some of the darkness away. She and Jack continued to hold eye contact throughout the splendor.  
Instead of burning rapidly into ash, this time was different. White streams of magnificent light showered Jack Dawson's beautiful form, like he had already been taken from her. He swallowed again, and she could see the tears turning his eyes into the ice that seemed determined to claim him. He knew that this was the last time they would see each other.  
If she stayed in the lifeboat.  
Will this be the last time I ever see him? Rose wondered feverishly. Like this? In the black, the black of night and sky and sea, so afraid, so alone, so sentenced? No, it can't be. I won't let it be. I love him. I will die for him.  
These facts were enough for her - last time, sea, death, and love.  
I can't leave him to fight alone.  
She stood.  
Jack, who had been staring transfixed, suddenly awoke from his daze.  
"Rose! Rose, what are you doin'! No, Rose!" He shouted over the railing. He watched, helplessly, as she thrust herself out of the lifeboat and hung onto the side of Titanic's promenade.  
"No!" He yelled, oblivious to Cal's, "Stop her! Stop her!" He watched as two men hauled her safely onto the deck of the ship, and he saw the edge of her gown as she turned and ran.  
As soon as she was gone, he whipped around and tore through the crowds, struggling to get to her, where ever she was. Why did the ship have to be so damn big? Why did she have to jump out? Oh God! He had to save her. Why was she risking her life like this? Why?  
Down on the promenade, Rose shoved people out of her way, her dress and the overcoat soaring behind her. She was desperate to feel him against her again - how could she have even entertained the thought of leaving him?  
  
With frantic gestures, she pushed open the door that led into the main section of the A-deck Grand Staircase. As she streaked across the floor, she saw Jack jumping down the last few marble steps to the landing, his boyish face lined with disbelief and worry. They both sprinted the last few feet, Rose's damp red curls flying behind her.  
"Rose!" He shouted as they met on the base of the stairs. She threw herself, crying, into Jack's arms with a loud sob. He lifted her up to his face and began to kiss her fervently, on her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead, her nose. She was here, engulfed in his body, weeping her heart out. She pressed her hands to his cheeks.  
"You're so stupid, Rose!" He cried, entangling his fingers in her hair before kissing her briefly on the mouth. "Why'd you do that, huh?" This time, he wasn't able to take his lips away so quickly. He allowed himself to kiss her again and again, her tears running into his mouth. Soon he broke away, holding her face, and they trembled together. "Why'd you do that? Why?" He demanded, holding her momentarily from him to see her expression better.  
She managed to hold her sobs back for a slight second as she gazed into those eyes that were penetrating her very being. "You jump, I jump, right?" She asked, again referring to the saying that had become a part of them. As she was waiting for him to answer, she caressed his neck, his shoulders, and then his face.  
As he stood, he realized that she had endangered her life because she loved him. He wouldn't separate them again.  
"Right," His voice, so full of love, again breathed life back into Rose. She kissed him again, allowing the taste of his tongue and his lips and his mouth to flood through her. She had thought she would never be warm again, but with his arms around her, she found out she was wrong.  
When the kiss ended, they embraced, Rose burying her face in Jack's shirt, Jack's in Rose's neck.  
"Oh God, I couldn't go. I couldn't go, Jack."  
"It's alright, we'll think of something."  
"At least I'm with you."  
"We'll think of something." 


	9. As the Water Rises

**Sorry about the delay y'all. I've got like 3,000 projects and only 2 days to them all in. School - yuck. This is the only way I can escape. Enjoy and review!**  
  
Cal could hear Jack and Rose speaking to each other and his heart went aflame with envy, and then melted to cold steel. Every feeling he had ever had for Rose was evaporated in one instant, and he was unsure how to get them back. For although he had known that they were "in love," he had never seen them display it so openly in public. Now, in front of every acquaintance Cal had ever made, his fiancée, with damp hair and lovestruck eyes, was kissing this - steerage boy - without any restraints at all! Obviously, they were so free at the moment that they didn't care.  
As Lovejoy pulled him away from the rail where he stood watching, he managed to catch a last glimpse of the two and see Jack slip his hands down to the small of Rose's back while he kissed her, longer than before, and with more depth and love than Cal had ever seen. Rose had always frozen, lifeless, when he brushed his shoulder against her arm, or put a finger on her hand. He had thought it was because she wasn't used to being touched. Obviously, that was untrue. Just seeing this poor gutter rat loving on his beautiful fiancée was cutting through him. Even worse, she was enjoying and returning every kiss and caress he gave.  
It was too late. He had tried, hadn't he? He had loved Rose, he realized now, but had not been able to display it and had waited too long to understand - waited until she was whisked from him in heart, soul, body, and mind.  
There was only one thing left to do.  
  
Jack took in the scent of Rose's fiery curls pressed against his face - the scent of flowers, perfume, and silk - and let himself forget everything else for just a moment. As she pulled away to look at him, he grinned, which made her heart flutter. Their lips met again, staying passionately together. When they broke away, Rose fit herself into Jack's body, loving the feeling of his strong arms around her.  
As Jack opened his mouth to say something, something that was dying to leave his lips, I love you, he happened to glance up. The first thing that greeted his eyes numbed his brain.  
Caledon Hockley stood above them, holding onto a pillar on the staircase, a gun in his hand. He was cocking it and pointing it directly at them. His face was twisted and contorted with anger.  
"Move, Rose!" Jack yelled and began to run. Rose screamed as a gunshot rang out and a fixture on the Grand Staircase broke as a bullet pounded through it, inches from Jack's chest.  
Terrified, Rose watched as Cal began to pursue them. Jack expertly took her hand and streaked with her down the Grand Staircase, guiding her around the corners as she continued to allow her eyes to dart back above. More shots flew by the both of them, barely missing their targets. Rose knew Cal was an expert gunman, a result of training in his Country Clubs, and she was just waiting to feel an unbearable pain piercing her heart, just waiting to see Jack fall. If he hurt Jack -  
She didn't have time to think about. Suddenly she was jumping back into the icy water of D-deck up to her knees. Not back here again, she mind yelled. Jack was dragging her through the sea.  
Another bullet whizzed just past her head, embedding itself into a glass pane window. She let out a shriek.  
"C'mon Rose!" Another shot. Rose tried to run, but in the water, it was almost impossible.  
"Rose! Go!" Jack yelled. He pushed her ahead of him into the dining saloon, which was further near the stern. Because of this, the water level was less, and they were able to run on dry ground.  
Legs churning and heads pounding, they finally made their way across the whole expanse, not hearing Cal shout behind them, "I hope you enjoy your time together!"  
They tore over the fine carpet and around the back kitchens until they finally reached a third-class staircase and hid in its nook.  
"Shh," Jack whispered. Rose stood on the stair above him, her chest heaving. They were both lucky to have escaped with their lives. Jack stood next to her, one hand on hers, listening.  
However, instead of hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he heard screaming.  
Terrified at what they were about to find but knowing they couldn't leave, both Jack and Rose fell down the last few steps and looked right. There, standing in the hallway with icy water swirling around his feet, a young boy stood. His burlap garment was starting to float around him, and he was shrieking for help.  
Jack could not make this decision alone. In saving the boy, they risked themselves. In leaving, they risked another human.  
Either way they lost.  
He looked over at Rose. "We can't leave him," she whispered. He had known what the answer would be. He looked behind her at the water already starting to pound down the stairs that they need to get back up. The dining saloon was already flooded.  
"Alright, c'mon!" He yelled and raced to the little boy, water falling from the pipes above and streaming over the floors. He picked up the child and headed for two doors at the end of the corridor, the boy still screaming. It was then he saw the water gushing through the cracks and pressing at the other side. Quickly, he realized that if those doors gave way, a torrent of sea would wash upon them and they stood little chance against it.  
He turned automatically, hearing Rose sloshing behind him. However, terror engulfed his heart. Now the water was streaming down the steps so fast that it would be impossible to get back up. There was only one other way - a small hallway that lead to the left.  
"Go back!" He yelled, heading for the corridor. As he did, a man came running up to them. The boy's father.  
"Co che! Co che la viate ohna!" He yanked the shrieking child from Jack's arms and pushed Jack slightly backwards. With horror, the young couple watched as the father went and picked up a waterlogged suitcase lying strewn in the hallway. He continued to wade towards the doors, which were by now about to get pushed clean off their hinges by the force behind them.  
"No! Wait! It's the wrong way! Come back!" Both Jack and Rose cried behind him.  
It was too late. There was a split second in which the man's eyes filled with terror and dread and then the doors burst open. Suddenly, a solid wall of freezing, icy sea was sweeping towards them.  
"Run!" Jack bellowed over the roar of the water and began to tear behind Rose, who turned the corridor and blindly ran, searching for safety where there was none.  
She felt a strong pull around her legs and, without warning, was falling into a current of rushing sea. It was cold - so amazingly freezing that she had to gasp in order to even think. Her breath was ice in her mouth, she felt penetrated - and Jack! Where was he!  
Hands flailing, she allowed the water to carry her as she turned to search for him. He fell next to her, not willing to leave her. "Jack!" She cried, arms outstretched. He reached to her, but the gap between them was too great.  
"Rose!" He yelled. He didn't know where they would end up, but he did know that he would die a million times before he allowed Rose to be hurt.  
As suddenly as they had been swept up, they were slammed into a metal gate, another one of the horrible blockades in the ship. Lights flashed as a result of the water, the Titanic groaned, the sea deepened.  
Turning, Jack saw the small set of metal stairs they had been carried past. It was their only hope, but it was at least 15 feet behind him and the water was tormenting at an incredibly powerful speed.  
What choice did he have?  
"C'mon!" He shouted over the roar of the noise around them. Going before Rose, he dragged himself against the current, the flashing hurting his eyes, the cold tearing through everything else.  
He grabbed her hand, holding onto the pipes and the wall, pulling them along with all the strength he had.  
Finally, he grabbed Rose around the waist and hauled her up above him onto the staircase. With an effort, he followed, and they ran to as fast as their freezing bodies would go to the top, up each step.  
"Oh God!" Rose screamed. She felt despair running through her again.  
At the height of the stairs, there was yet another locked, metal gate that prevented them from escaping.  
Jack too saw it and grasped the bars, rattling the gate's hinges. It was to no avail. The gate wouldn't budge.  
"Help!" He shouted. Turning around briefly, he saw the green water lapping up towards them, slowly at first but with more speed as the moments passed.  
Both of them continued to yell, but seconds later the water was flooding around their feet and under the gate.  
If there was ever a time to give up, it was now. They were both exhausted and could barely stand, but were being forced to fight harder than ever for their lives. No one was in sight, and they were trapped behind bars of steel that were as solid as ever.  
Just as Rose was about to quit and sink to the floor, allowing the now shin-deep waters to overtake her, she heard a noise down the corridor. A steward, this one with straight dark hair, came running down the hallway. He was sloshing through the water, and the first thing Rose noticed was a ring of keys clanging on his belt.  
"Wait sir! Wait! Sir, open the gate! Please, sir, open the gate!" Jack yelled over the droning and creaking of the ship and the sea.  
"Help us! Help us! Please!" Rose extended her hands through the bars. Her blue - green eyes flashed in fear.  
For a moment, the steward considered. He began to turn around and make his way up the stairs, but he kept seeing Rose's young, terrorized face in his mind. If he didn't help the two, he sentenced them to death.  
In a split second he turned around. "Bloody hell," he muttered and ran to the gate. The lights were now flickering on this floor as well, and the water was coursing in faster and faster until it was up to their knees.  
The man unclasped the ring of keys from his belt and began fooling with them, his trembling fingers finding one out of the six and jamming it in the lock. It didn't work, so he let it fall as he tried another one.  
"Come on, come on! Hurry!" Jack and Rose cried, their eyes trained behind them on the ever rising water level. "Go, go!"  
"Jesus," the steward mumbled, frightened by the cold and the dark and the water and the shouts. He first used one key, then another one, then another. There was only one more left, the one it had to be. Suddenly, a light near them burst and the sparks fell, glistening, before being carried downstream. "God!"  
In the flashing, however, the man had let go of the keys. He had already been horrified and afraid, and had been shaking. When the light had gone out, he had ducked impulsively, and his hand had lost its grip. The keys fell down to the floor, which was buried beneath knee-deep sea.  
He turned to them, his face eyes sad and frightened. "I'm sorry - I dropped the keys," he yelled loud enough for them to hear. Rose's eyes widened with panic and her skin turned pale.  
Like it was nothing, the steward turned and ran back up the stairs, leaving the two to drown and freeze.  
"No wait! Don't leave! Send more help! No!" Rose knew it was of no use, but she shouted after him anyway. With him, their tiny chance of survival disappeared as well.  
Jack, whose mind was a bit more clear and practical, watched him for a split moment, but knew that it wouldn't help them to call him back. So, taking a deep breath, he plunged himself beneath the surface of the water.  
Colors flickered green and yellow in front of him. He forced his eyes open against the painful, terrible cold and salt which bit through him like a knife. The Atlantic was more icy and powerful than anyone could ever imagine and it took all of his endurance and love for Rose not to pop back up from the pain.  
He groped through the three or so empty inches beneath the gate, his hand reaching and feeling. Nothing. Had the steward lied just so he could get out alive?  
Just as Jack's lungs demanded for air, his fingertips found a cold metal chain on the floor. The keys! Jack had found the keys. He grasped it, wrapped it around his wrist, and kicked to open air. Now the water was just above his waist.  
"I got 'em!" He yelled, taking a breath. "I got 'em. Which one is it, Rose?" Her eyes flew momentarily over the set.  
"The sharp one! Try the sharp one!" It was the only one the man hadn't attempted to use. She watched as he picked out her choice and thrust his arm through the bars, twisting his hand so he could pick at the lock.  
"Hurry Jack," she whispered, afraid, looking around her.  
"Oh no!" He shouted. "It won't go in!"  
"Hurry Jack." Although it was a repeat, she said it softer, forcing the words out.  
"It's stuck! It's stuck!" Jack exclaimed. The sea had risen past their chests and the lights were now all but exploding, leaving them in pure darkness one moment and amazing brightness the next. Soon they were flickering on less and staying off more.  
"Hurry Jack!" She cried, terrified, as she felt water lapping around her neck and down her dress. The incredible loudness did nothing to quench her fears.  
"It.I." Jack concentrated left on talking and more on the lock.  
Now, even struggling to stay above the surface, Rose's face was being buried by the depth.  
"Hurry Jack!" She fought her lips out of the water long enough to scream louder than she ever had.  
There was a groaning, and then a sudden click. Jack breathed a sigh of slight relief. He had managed to unlock it.  
"I got it!" He bellowed. "Go! Go Rose!" He strained to open the metal against the current but pulled it apart enough for both of them to slip through. With a gasp, she was somehow able to push her way past the landing and across the hallway. A pipe fixed across the ceiling blocked her way. She took a breath and went under the water to slip beneath it. Her hands flailed on the other side and she was able to resurface and take a breath and sat on the stairs.  
She looked behind her. Jack was not there. Oh God.  
"Jack!" She cried and felt her heart melt with happiness as his blonde hair and icy blue eyes appeared over the pipe. "Come on!"  
He ducked beneath it and appeared next to her. "Move, move!" He gasped and they pulled themselves up the staircase. They had managed to escape to bowels of a monster - again. 


	10. The Horror Begins

**Now, this one took forever to write. I think because I had to display the ending in the best way possible. It's kinda long. Not the saddest of all the chapters that are going to be posted, but a bit moving if you've read the movie. It's not that great because drama isn't really my specialty. Ok, you want the story, right? Read and review (I DON'T OWN IT!)**  
  
Jack and Rose both began to run, not willing to waste a moment of time. Up the stairs they flew, their feet clanging. Rose felt sick to her stomach. The ship was at such a tilt that it was noticeably harder to climb the steps. She pulled herself along the rail as Jack followed behind her.  
"Keep goin' up!" He yelled, trying to encourage her. It was tiring and they had no idea where the maze would end - or where it had begun. Every muscle in their bodies hurt. Well, Jack thought bitterly, it's nothing compared to what the water is gonna be. He felt the raw, anguished terror rising in his throat again and it was all he could do to keep himself moving.  
With each flight, the sound of sea below turned more and more distant until it faded completely. Although the angle was still there, the groans were quieter. Then, suddenly, the stairs ended. There was a wooden door that read "CREW ONLY". Without so much as a second of hesitation, Jack threw it open and pulled Rose with him to the other side. They were greeted by an elegant display of steps, smaller than the Grand Staircase but still beautiful enough for both of them to know they were back in first class. The floor was a shiny marble again, and electric lights burned brightly.  
"The Aft Grand Staircase," Rose gasped, out of breath from climbing. "We are in the back of the ship."  
That was a good thing, for it was the back of the ship that would stay out of the ocean for the longest. He nodded and turned to face her. What he saw shocked him.  
She was shivering slightly, enough for him to feel it when he went up to her. Her hair was in salty tangles, and there were trails of tears down her cheeks. Her dress was water stained and in her face he saw terror like he had never seen before.  
He had to get her outta here. He wasn't sure how much longer she could handle it and he didn't want to find out. Damn it, he had fallen in love with one person in his entire life, and their love had just blossomed tonight. He would not lose her, not yet, not now, not ever. He just wouldn't let God give him love and then take it away from him. He took her hand, kissed her lips quickly, and began to run up the stairs.  
Both of them were thinking one thought - not without you. As they climbed higher and higher, they realized that they were bound by an endless string of love and nothing was ever going to tear them apart. Their two hearts beat as one and if one of them was lost - the other half could not, would not, survive.  
Rose was afraid - no, she was petrified - of what lay before her. She could hardly breathe. Now, it wasn't like when she had been waiting with her mother to board the lifeboats. Now, she knew that Titanic was going to sink. She knew that there weren't enough boats, and she knew that the water was cold enough to kill within minutes. There was no escape from the facts. She had to deal with them, and somehow live to another sunrise. She owed herself that -she owed Jack that.  
Her thoughts began to wander. She remembered little wisps of her past that were now part of her - and that were now sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Like a ghost from yesterday, words floated back into her head, words that were now what she based her life upon.  
You jump, I jump.  
That was such a powerful phrase that conveyed everything in the love Jack and she shared. It symbolized everything - You aren't going to risk yourself without risking me. Your pain is my pain. Your happiness is my happiness. If you let go, I'm letting go too. I can't leave you. I won't leave you.  
The first time those words had been said to her, she had been in more pain than anyone could possibly realize. Feeling comfort in the memories, she allowed herself to be swept back to two evenings ago, before her life had true meaning, after everything had been taken away from her.  
Rose sat stiffly at the dining table, staring straight ahead.  
Everything was gone.  
Her father, irresponsible man that he was, was dead, and that one spark of freedom he had founded within her died with him. Her false sense of security from the world around her had evaporated. She knew truly what Society was. Money, boasting, feigning, it was all there, everything except real human emotions. It was as if everyone here hid their true selves behind an image of perfection that just couldn't exist and it disgusted her.  
She knew who was sitting to her left. Her mother, Ruth, was pretending to be in animated conversation with J.J. Astor - connections, Rose thought bitterly. Since Papa had died, the DeWitt-Bukaters had been introduced to debts that they hadn't even known had existed. Mother was terrified someone would find out and was always trying to hide their secrets as much as possible. Gossip was a harsh thing in their world.  
Her world.  
She had felt glimmers of happiness before, faint times when she felt everything would just maybe work out alright. Then, her destiny went spinning out of control. Her mother now held her fate and would control it till dying day and beyond. Before she could speak a word of protest, she found herself engaged to Caledon Hockley, a thirty-year-old steel tycoon who had no more use for her than appearances.  
No one had any use for her.  
She saw her life as if she had already lived it - an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. She was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull her back, no one who cared, or even noticed.  
No one would care.  
She had to escape her life, her mother, her fiancée, herself. There was no way out. Save one.  
Her heart trembled at the prospect of death, but absolutely died with the prospect of more torture here on Earth. She was trapped. The feeling of despair and confinement grew worse every second until she felt the life was being smothered out of her. She dreaded each day, and at last she had finally woken disappointed that she hadn't passed away quietly in the night. That was no way to live. It was a way to die.  
"Mother," she breathed now, still dazed, feeling in some way controlled by something beyond her power. She realized it was her fear and her hurt. "Mother!" Finally, Ruth turned to look at her, the smile already fading from her face. This is what she feels when she looks at me, Rose thought, utter contempt.  
"Mother, I am exhausted. The sea air must be getting to me. It is late." Not true. It was hardly ten o'clock, and most passengers didn't even begin to go to their cabins till midnight. "May I be excused to take a walk and retire?"  
Her mother weighed the options in her mind and must have decided it was better to have an absent daughter than a tired-looking one. "Yes, you may go, but have Trudy launder out your clothes for tomorrow first. And.don't.cause... any.scenes," she seethed. Rose nodded. This was all Ruth cared about. Appearances and reputations.  
Gracefully, as a lady should, she quietly excused herself. Cal looked at her, obviously excepting an affectionate glance or an embrace or a kiss before she left, but Rose had never kissed him and never would, not tonight. Her life was a horrible mess, such a horrible mess that no one would ever be able to repair it. Why even try?  
She glided elegantly across the carpeted floor, her beaded gown trailing behind her.  
Papa, just wait for me.  
She would be with him soon. Her breathing quickened as she stepped into the lift with no intention whatsoever to see her maid about her gowns as her mother had ordered. Tomorrow's clothes wouldn't be a concern of anyone's.  
"How can I help you, Miss Hockley?" The bellhop asked, his gloved hand lingering on the brass pulley. She spun around to look at him in horror, her eyes widening. Miss Hockley? That was right - her mother had been introducing her to others as Miss Hockley, very proud that her only daughter was about to become part of the Hockley fortune.  
"Miss DeWitt-Bukater," she whispered. The expression on her face was terrifying the crew member. "My name is Rose DeWitt-Bukater."  
"My apologies, Miss DeWitt-Bukater," he said hastily.  
"B-deck," she muttered.  
With a curt nod, the bellhop pushed the lever up and clasped his hands behind his back, making no attempt at conversation but observing the beautiful girl who was now beginning to cry in the elevator.  
He eyed her curiously and said nothing, wanting to ask questions but keeping them damned up. When the machine jerked to a sudden stop, he felt relief and pulled open the doors.  
Rose fell out, completely distraught. Tears were making smooth patterns down her cheeks. In some ways, she was so completely miserable she knew suicide was her only option. In others, she wanted desperately to live.  
Yet, no one else wanted it.  
She gave herself over to the idea of heaven and her father, of no pain and no hurt and no memories.just absolute perfection.  
She began to run. She couldn't wait any longer; she wanted to end this horror of a life that was her own. Now she was weeping. Her hair had fallen from its elegant knot and was now cascading around her shoulders and back. Her complexion had gone clammy. Soon she stopped caring about the passengers around her; she'd be gone soon anyway. She raced to the door which led to the B-deck promenade and stumbled outside. Her heels clicked across the wooden deck as sobs racked her body and she flew, her curls streaming behind her.  
There were the shocked stares of the wealthy and the curious glances of the maids and stewards. She ran by one woman, shoving her to the side, and heard a scandalized gasp from behind her. It didn't matter anymore. The chill of the evening bit into her skin and the ice in her soul didn't help. She could hear the water churning mercilessly beneath Titanic and she knew that it was waiting for her, welcoming her, calling her.  
She pulled open a metal gate and tore down the steps into the third- class area. There were few people out and none followed her, so she kept going. Her cries filled the night air as she went up another staircase onto the poop deck - the very stern of the ship - past a row of benches. More sobs were racked from her body.  
Finally, she threw herself over a metal pole and stared. Now she could see over the stern. The sea was swirling in endless shades of navy and black - dark colors that symbolized her hurt and her death.  
She shivered at that word, death. As her chest heaved and her now icy blue-green eyes swept around her, she thought about her options. There were no choices, really. She was trapped. She had waited too long to break free and now she was being smothered by her life.  
With hesitant steps she began walking to the railing, her hair gleaming red in the light. She glanced over her shoulder as she completed the last few feet, half of her heart aching to stay safely onboard, the other half already throwing itself into the sea. God, she thought, why do I have to end like this? Oh, please let my father be waiting for me.  
If Jonathan DeWitt-Bukater was waiting for her, it would be alright.  
  
Suddenly her beaded gown was caught on the metal. Damn this dress, her mind screamed she worked the fabric free and hoisted it over the rail. Her body would never be found. Not the expensive clothes, nor the jade earrings, not even the custom designed shoes. Those would be what her mother carried about, not the real living, human being within.  
Gracefully, she climbed the bars and swung first one foot, then the other, to the opposite side. She slipped completely over and hung on to the railing with her hands, the huge engagement ring still on her finger. Her knuckles were white with pressure, but her face was pearl with fear.  
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared over the water and leaned out. Any second now she would have the courage. She closed her eyes and began to pray.  
God, she mumbled in her head, please take my soul and give me the strength to -  
"Don't do it!"  
A strong voice, rich with passion and meaning, with life and freedom, appeared behind her.  
She whirled behind, startled. This was the last thing she needed now, not now! She was ready. She could just jump now, before this man could stop her.  
It was then that she actually saw the person whom the voice belonged to. It was a young man; he couldn't have been more than twenty, with long, boyish blonde hair and tan skin. A steerage passenger, but an American nonetheless. He was incredibly handsome and.her heart flip-flopped. Now was the last time to be thinking such thoughts!  
"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" Her voice was trembling almost as much as her body as she turned back to face the water. "I mean it! I'll let go!"  
She shifted her stare to watch his face as he registered her words. As he moved from the shadows, she could make out his eyes - and suddenly all of her other emotions were momentarily washed away. They were so amazingly blue; they penetrated her very soul in their calm, enchanting, clear gaze. In that minute, she wanted valiantly to believe that her life had meaning and purpose. She didn't even know who this man was and yet she felt safe for the first time in her life.  
Although he seemed amused inside for a split second, his face suddenly straightened in a look of utmost sincerity. Still holding his grave face he lifted a cigarette that had been in his fingers the whole time. He made a motion as if tossing it over the side, to show her that although he was coming closer he meant nothing to her.  
She watched on anxiously as he took slow, cautious steps to the rail and threw the smoke into the waves. There was some point to his movements - that she knew, but she had no idea what that point was. He leaned back and put his hands in his pockets, attempting and failing to look relaxed. Who could be in a situation like this? Rose gave him credit for even trying.  
"No you won't," he stated nervously. She whirled around to face him better. No you won't? Of all the stupid things to say, he was insulting her word?  
Her anger bubbled through her mouth. "What do you mean 'no you won't?' Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do; you don't know me!"  
There was no doubt about it - he was obviously enjoying himself. Those eyes sparkled in unsounded laughter and, although it was stopped immediately, the corners of his mouth had begun to uplift.  
"Well, you woulda done it already."  
She looked at him in disgust. He might have a point, yet it was none of his concern whether or not she was brave enough to - to - let go.  
What did she say now? If he would just leave she could go back to musing in her own painful thoughts. Having him here was like salt to her wounds; to have someone see her hurt.  
"You're distracting me. Go away!" Her voice was as sharp as a blade and icier than the air itself, but she didn't know this man. Why should she care if she upset him, especially now?  
She expected him to mumble an apology and turn away. Certainly he wouldn't argue with her chilling tone. He would go below and forget about her.  
She strained to hear the sound of receding footsteps but instead another sound drifted to her ears - words that melted her heart.  
"I can't. I'm too involved now. You let go - and I'm gonna have to jump in there after ya."  
Her brain was numb with shock. He barely knew her - and he would risk his life for her? What kind of a man was this? Maybe he didn't understand the consequences of his actions.  
"Don't be absurd.you'd be killed!"  
He didn't seem to be fazed it all. Instead, he merely began to untie his heavy boots.  
"I'm a good swimmer."  
Her soul pooled in her body. It didn't matter if he was a good swimmer. As he untied the other lace, she replied.  
"The fall alone will kill you."  
Again, his eyes seemed to smile. He knew exactly what he was getting into, and the look on his face told her he wasn't joking, either. He truly would jump off this ship in an attempt to save her.  
"It would hurt, I'm not sayin' it wouldn't," he answered carelessly, pulling one boot off and throwing it to the ground. Why was he doing this to her? "To tell ya the truth, I'm a lot more concerned about that water bein' so cold." He continued to work out a knot while he kept his piercing eyes on her face and a questioning expression lit his mouth.  
She tried to keep her dignity and hide her fear from him. Gulping, she turned momentarily to again face the sea. She knew he could tell from her tearstained cheeks and glassy eyes that she was terrified, but she would never admit it aloud.  
Finally, curiosity got the better of her. "How cold?" She asked softly, still not looking at him.  
He shrugged. "Freezing. Maybe a couple of degrees over." He removed his last boot and stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets. She mused over his words. Freezing? She knew that the human body could not survive in such temperatures and that they resulted in a slow, painful death. She didn't care about her welfare, but against her better thoughts she found herself worrying about him. How could she survive, in eternity or on Earth, knowing she had caused another human being's death?  
"You.you ever been to Wisconsin?"  
Her dramatic mind was unsettled by his sporadic question. Confused, she turned quickly to look at him.  
"What?" What in the hell did Wisconsin have to do with tonight?  
"Well, they have some of the coldest winters around. I grew up there near Chippewa Falls." She shook her head at his answer. He was some piece of work.  
"I remember when I was a kid," he continued, a far away expression on his face, "me and my father - we used to go ice fishing on Lake Wissota." He paused here to look at her. "Ice fishing is you know when you -"  
Exasperated, she focused on him. Why was he telling her this? "I know what ice fishing his!"  
He put his hands in the air as if proving his good intentions. "Sorry," he answered sarcastically. "You seemed like an - indoor girl." He ran his tongue in his mouth and sighed. "Anyway, I - ah - I fell through some thin ice." She listened with more interest now as he leaned over the rail. "And I'm tellin' ya, water that cold - like right down there - it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can't breathe, can't think - at least not about anything but the pain."  
He concentrated on her again, remembering the position they were in. "Which is why I'm not lookin' forward to jumpin' in there after ya," he went on, as if she had asked. "But like I said, I don't have a choice." He took off his worn jacket and unbuttoned his bulky vest, casting each to the ground. He flipped his blonde hair out of his face, a look of utter seriousness in his beautiful eyes. She watched him, amazed, still leaning dangerously over the Atlantic.  
He prodded her further. "I guess I'm kinda hopin' you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here."  
No! She had been so prepared to die and go with her father - to leave her mother and her fiancée, her rigid life. Whether or not she was sacrificing another soul shouldn't matter. She might be doing him a favor, getting him off of this awful planet.  
"You're crazy!" She exclaimed, pretending to shift all of her attention to the black sea but honestly waiting for his reaction.  
Out of the corner of her eye she saw his grin. It made her legs feel weak and her head roar. It was so boyish, so innocent. He seemed so - free.  
"That's what everybody says," he laughed. Then, suddenly, he leaned closer to her so that she could feel his body heat and the warmth of his breath tickling her neck. "But with all due respect miss; I'm not the one hangin' off the back of a ship here." His boldness shocked and softened her.  
"C'mon, give me your hand." He urged, taking one of his own hands out of his pocket and reaching it, shaking, towards her. "You don't want to do this."  
She gasped with the authenticity of his actions and words. Did she? He was lighting hope in her - there was a sort of life that included the adventure and joy he was made of. She just had to be strong enough to take it.  
Trembling, she grasped his hand with hers. It was rough from some sort of labor, but surprisingly tender and warm. He turned her around slowly, gently. In the moment she faced him, she knew she was doing the right thing.  
"Whew!" He sighed with mock relief. She knew he hadn't been that worried. He smiled again so she had to struggle for breath once more. "I'm Jack Dawson."  
Jack Dawson. The name was so simple, yet so complicated. She rolled it over in her mind, loving the sound of it.  
"Rose DeWitt-Bukater," She struggled back, still finding it difficult to speak; only feeling his hands holding her so firmly.  
He chuckled. "Gonna have to get ya to write that one down." She smiled back. She just wanted to stay like this, safe from Cal and her mother, Mr. Dawson protecting her.  
All too soon, he looked at her and whispered, "C'mon." She allowed him to help her up.  
It happened in a matter of seconds. She felt her shoe heel slip on the lace hem of her dress - and suddenly she was dangling over the sea, thrashing in the air, the cold seeping into her bones, screaming. Jack, luckily, had quick reflexes and had caught her by one arm.  
"Help me!" She shrieked, twisting and turning but not being able to get back on the rail. She didn't want to die anymore! She wanted to live! God - please, please, please.  
"I gotcha! C'mon!" Jack yelled back down over the roaring sound of crashing waves on Titanic's hull. She felt his strong hands pulling her up as she fought against the pull beneath her to survive. Her feet swung around beneath her. She managed to get a weak grasp on the railing and heave herself up just a bit further. Without warning, however, his grip loosened. She didn't realize it was so that he could grab her other arm, and she immediately panicked, causing her to slip again, lower this time. Her screams became louder and more desperate. Now she was being held only by her wrist.  
"Listen! Listen to me!" Jack bellowed, intent on getting her to be still. She looked up to meet his gaze, terror lining her face. His piercing blue eyes were focused only on her, calmness dancing in their color.  
"I've gotcha," he said quietly, with as much peace as he could muster. His hair hung over his face as he was draped across the rail. "I won't let go. Now pull yourself up! You can do it!"  
Lit with fresh hope, Rose again struggled higher and higher up the hull of Titanic. Finally, finally, as her screams died down, Jack managed to take hold of both of her arms. "I've gotcha. C'mon," he whispered as she groaned with the exertion of pulling all her weight up to the rail. He grabbed her around the waist and she threw his arms around his neck until he yanked her back to the other side. With a toppling crash, they fell to the deck. She was smothered beneath his weight and shaking profusely.  
He looked deep into her face as his eyes caressed her soul, and in that moment she absolutely knew one thing for certain. In all of the people in her life, right now she trusted Jack Dawson most.  
While Rose was having a flashback of the moment she had met the man she now loved, Fabrizio and Tommy were on boat deck. They had checked both sides for boats and only one remained. The men that were left on Titanic were becoming more and more panicked until finally they had become a mass of jumbling humans, too terrified to pay attention to anything - the sea, the tilt of the deck, the blackness - other than the last boat. Fear was so thick in the air that Fabrizio felt he could spoon it out if it was tangible.  
Everyone around him was as white and limp as a bedsheet, shaking like a leaf. Everyone that is, except for Tommy. Tommy Ryan's Irish core was keeping its composure.  
The two nimble men climbed atop the officer's quarters, where a collapsible lifeboat had been. Now, it was being hooked up to the davits as the falls were cranked in. Fabrizio counted the seats to their capacity.  
Raggaza! Forty-eight. Just forty-eight! There had to be hundreds still on this death trap including women and children! There was no way he could get on that boat; his conscience would not let him. How could he take the place of an innocent child? The saying was false. There was a will, but not a way to get off of Titanic.  
His attention was suddenly drawn to a steerage boy who couldn't have been more than thirteen. He was tall for his age, with broad shoulders, but also with a face that was still a boy's and several young freckles. His mother had already boarded and was holding out her hand for him.  
"Damn you!" Officer Lightoller, who was loading the boat, cried out to the boy's father, who was standing by. "The lad's too old; we need these seats for the women and children!"  
  
"He's only twelve!" The father yelled back. "For God's sake, man, he is a child!"  
"No! The answer is no!"  
Cold knives of horror and fear plunged in Fabrizio's chest. The kid was twelve - he had a right to get out of here. What in the hell was going on with these pazzo people? Why were they being so damn stubborn? How could they not let a twelve year old aboard, knowing what he would have to face -  
For the first time since the iceberg hit, Fabrizio realized exactly what they would all have to face. Ice. Cold. Death. The Atlantic was freezing this time of year. It was impossible to survive. He imagined after the ship had gone down, in the water with hundreds of other bodies, in cold that no one could imagine, in darkness that would penetrate his body like the temperature -  
"We have to get goin'." Tommy, who had been measuring up the scene, spoke suddenly. He had been sizing their chances, and they didn't look good. Christ only knew where Jack had gone - Tommy could only fiercely pray that he had someone managed to break past those officers commanding the boat. He didn't want to know what it would do to Jack and Rose if they were separated, but he knew that it would be worse than any death could be.  
Fabrizio nodded at his side and motioned for Tommy to lead the way, which he did. He ran to a thick rope, a rope, he realized, that was holding up a funnel, and slid down it to the normal level of boat deck, not noticing the sting on his hands. Fabrizio didn't bother with the tool and simply jumped to the ground, landing on his feet. Both were suddenly caught in the fury of the panic and looked wildly around them. Their hearts pounded in their chests. Come another few hours, Tommy thought, horrified, will my heart still be beatin'?  
It was a sharp voice to his left that awoke him from his indescribable sea of dread.  
"Stay back!" It was the voice of Officer Murdoch, who had come to help hold back the flood of crowds. Sickened, Tommy realized he was holding the latest style of gun in his hand and aiming it at the people surrounding him.  
Both Irishman and Italian fought to the front of the circle, right in the face of Murdoch.  
Tommy's fiery temper was bubbling up inside him again as he turned and saw the twelve-year-old from earlier being comforted by his father while his mother wept with anguish from her seat, not able to rise.  
Fiercely, he spread his legs apart, symbolically protecting the others, and leaned toward the shaking crew member. "Would ya give us a chance ta live ya limey bastard?!" He roared, his green eyes dancing in anger. Fabrizio stepped up with him, showing his support and raising a fist in the air.  
Now Officer Murdoch pointed the gun right at the troublemaker, his glassy orbs wide with surprise and terror. "I'll shoot any man who tries to get past me, stay back!"  
"Bastard!" Tommy yelled, not willing to give up.  
A finely dressed gentleman pushed in front of Murdoch and attempted to board the boat. The officer shoved him away.  
Shocked, the man stared around, his dark hair out of its place and hanging limply in his face. Finally, he spoke. "We had a deal, damn you!" He whispered angrily.  
Before Tommy could fully register what the tony had said, Murdoch reached into his pocket and slammed a huge wad of twenty dollar bills to the floor. Bribery money.  
"You're money can't save you any more than it can save me," he seethed, a bit crazily. "Get back!" This time the rich man was rammed back into the crowd. Tommy pushed him a bit further with his elbow. Who in the hell did he think he was, that he was better than the rest of them?  
And just like that it was over. A man above Tommy attempted to jump into the boat. Officer Murdoch shot before he could think and the man dropped from the rope. A second man, moving to get out of the latter's path, tripped backwards, shoving Tommy out in the open. As Tommy looked around, confused, there was another tremendous bang, and he felt a searing pain in his chest. He heard himself fall with a sickening thud to the deck. In a haze, he could barely make out Fabrizio above him, who had dropped to the floor.  
"Tommy!" He cried, and cradled his friend's head. Everything was swimming before Tommy's eyes. He could feel blood bubbling from his heart and mouth. Weakly, he thought, I'm sorry I couldn't do anymore. Titanic had taken him after all. As the hot redness of his wound dripped into the sea, he felt an utter peace and then.nothing.  
One of the first victims of hundreds.  
Fabrizio continued to hold his friend after life had left him. "Oh no, Tommy! No!" He screamed, his Italian accent thickening with horror. "No - no - no, Ragazzo mia? Mami molana pervase de?" Finally, he managed to translate his words into English. "Somebody help me, please!" He moaned, his grief bleeding like Tommy's chest. Nobody moved.  
Why? 


	11. Nearer, My God, to Thee

**Another update, already! I had some free time. Ok, I was practically crying while writing this chapter. I know you're thinking, GET A LIFE. That's if you just read it. I listened to music while writing it, Titanic music. It is so sad! I highly recommend going to while reading this (open a new window) and clicking on the REAL AUDIO under Unable To Stay, Unwilling To Leave (Stereo). It's so beautiful. Ok, I am anxious to get feedback on this one.  
  
FOR REVIEWS, EMAIL ME AT Titanic4Eternity@houston.rr.com . ANY COMMENTS ARE WELCOME!**  
  
Jack and Rose locked hands as they continued to fight against the angle of the ship's deck. Now, they were on they were on the landing of A- deck on the Aft Grand Staircase - and it didn't go any higher. Thinking quickly, Jack decided to cut through the smoking room to get to the A-deck Promenade.  
He pulled Rose behind him, his heart falling when her steps became weaker. She's giving up, he thought to himself painfully.  
Not yet. He'd keep her going by himself if he had to, but she was not going to quit on him until the end. There wouldn't be an end. Not this night.  
He pushed through the swinging, smoky glass door and into the richly decorated room that still lingered with the scent of cigars and brandy. The ceilings were embossed and the walls were covered with stain glass portraits. The room was empty save one lone man, who was leaning painfully against the mantle of the fireplace. Orange light from the fire threw patterns and shadows across his chiseled face.  
Rose recognized him but couldn't place his identity with his back to her. As she raced past him, it hit her. Stopping suddenly on the lush green carpet, she cried out, "Mr. Andrews!"  
He turned slowly, as if it hurt to move, to see who had called his name. His appearance was the same - he had the same graying brown hair, square jaw, and honorable height she remembered. He was wearing the same heavy black overcoat, and his tie was still a bit crooked. But something was different - horribly different and wrong.  
"Oh Rose," he murmured, his eyes darkening when he saw her. She was so young and innocent; she had just fallen in love; she had a promising life ahead of her . and because of him it was all going to end. If he knew anything, he knew the shipping world. He knew the sea. And he knew that more than a thousand men, women, and children would die tonight.  
Her shoulders sagged when she saw the expression on his face. He had resigned himself to this noble fate, she thought, her vision misty. "Won't you even make a try for it?" She asked, knowing what the answer was.  
"I'm sorry . I did not build you a strong enough ship, young Rose," he mumbled, tears in his hazel eyes. Rose's heart suddenly shattered like ice. No! She wanted to scream. No . no . it's not your fault! No ship is unsinkable! Please! She wanted to take away his guilt in his final minutes. How could he blame himself? No one could control the Atlantic. She thought of the horror he must feeling - being responsible for the death of hundreds. She couldn't imagine it.  
Jack stood there, transfixed by this man's shame. He could not put into words what he felt right then, staring at the most honorable man he knew collapse to the floor of hurt. He was relatively young . probably had a family waiting for him. How . why .  
The ship groaned loudly, awakening Jack to the ever-present threat of death. "She's going fast," he whispered to Rose, not taking his eyes off of Mr. Andrews. "We have to move." He began to walk towards the door. Rose unwillingly followed, not wanting to leave a fellow human in such anguish.  
"Wait," Thomas Andrews said suddenly, holding out a powerful hand to stop them. He had thought it over and he knew he was going to go down with Titanic. He couldn't live with himself otherwise. His only regret was having so many others come to such a bitter end.  
Shaking, he picked up his padded lifebelt in both hands and held it out to the girl who had inspired him to do what was right. He attempted to smile, but failed miserably. "Good luck to you Rose."  
She hesitated, but seeing the firm look on his face took the vest. "And to you," she answered, knowing that it was useless. She was about to turn away when, overwhelmed with an impulse, she turned around and embraced the proud Irishman.  
These were things that would never leave her mind about Titanic, the bravery, the honor, the pride, the dignity, and the acceptance that was being displayed tonight. She knew that Mr. Andrews had been stripped to the quick and all that was left was the true man he really was - the man that was willing to take responsibility from all others for this terrible, terrible mistake and die, even if he was innocent.  
He hugged her back briefly, and then released her, signaling her to go. Somehow, she managed to stumble out of a turning door. Jack nodded his thanks to Mr. Andrews - someone whom he would never forget, no matter what tonight brought for him.  
After the young couple had left, Thomas stood still for a moment. With a pang in his heart, he thought of the love Jack and Rose shared, how they were willing to risk all just to be with each other, just to be in the other's arms. Sadly, he thought of his own wife, with her brilliant smile and long blonde hair, and his young daughter. The pain in Thomas Andrew's eyes now overflowed into tears. He leaned back over the fireplace and wept.  
  
On boat deck, the orchestra members finished the last note of a cheerful ragtime melody that was meant to lift the spirits. The screaming however, had, if anything, become louder and more desperate. All were aware that the last boat had left and now the passengers were tossing things below into the sea to use as floatation devices. Some slipped or jumped into the ocean themselves.  
Wally, the leader, watched in horror as the lights flickered and the water below them churned.  
"Right," he murmured, realizing that it was now or never for the three other players, "That's it then."  
He let his lips upturn into a tiny smile as William, his fellow violin player, shouldered his instrument and patted him on the arm. "Goodbye, Wally," he whispered. "Good luck." Wally nodded as the others, the cellists Peter and Charlie, muttered their farewells. They all began to walk away, their minds turning over and over with fear.  
Wally looked briefly down at his chest, where two fabric white stars were sewn into his black suit. What did they symbolize? Maybe he belonged to be here tonight, under all of the glittering stars .  
He had never really been good at praying. Sure, Wally believed in God, and he thought prayers several times a day. He breathed them during worship services. But now, on seeing so many lives ending before his own eyes, it didn't feel good enough. They slid down the hull, they fell into metal railings, they splashed, screaming, into the Atlantic. And during it all the beautiful, ailing ship, who knew what she was causing, continued to silently slip beneath the waves.  
He looked every direction, but all he could see was black - the black of death, the black of sea, the black of Titanic, the black of the sky.  
Right then, no prayer could possibly seem large enough to cover all the death and horror and terror he was seeing. There was only one way that could.  
Tears formed in his eyes as he lifted his violin to his shoulder and nestled it against his neck. He arched his bow and drew it across the strings, slowly, sweetly, and painfully. He knew that the song would drift into the sea like everything else, but maybe, just maybe, a piece could reach heaven.  
The melody of his song, "Nearer My God, to Thee," strained over the terrified shrieks of the people, the groans of the ship, and the churning of the water. Near him, a young sandy-haired man lay on the deck. His blood was spilt on the floor and his friend was smoothing his shirt, his tears plopping on the deck.  
This was what April 14 and 15, 1912, would always mean. Blood and water and tears.  
Nearer, my God to Thee, Nearer my God to Thee!  
The other members froze. What a sweet, sad song - one that they all knew. William took in a deep breath of sea air and with it allowed the notes to flow over him. It was a time to be brave.  
He turned and joined Wally, picking up his instrument and melting in with the melody on the next line.  
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,  
Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee.  
Peter and Charlie stood, staring ahead, their cellos by their side. Fear like ice washed over them and then was burned away by fire. If there was ever a religious moment, it was now. They spun around and walked back to the very place they had stood moments ago, a feeling of trust refreshing their low notes when they joined in.  
All four members stood in the haunting tune of the song, sending up their prayer to God for all of the victims of Titanic. Their hearts sang a pleading for the souls of all of the innocents that would be covered by the sea, one again with their Maker .  
Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee!  
Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,  
  
Darkness be over me, my rest a stone.  
  
Yet in my dreams I'd be nearer, my God to Thee.  
  
Captain E.J. Smith stood staring fixedly at the head of his ship. It was being covered with blackness, like the sky had melted and poured itself on Titanic. He watched the new white railings submerge under the ocean and the solid wooden decks flood.  
He stood; his shoulders square and his heart trembling. As he closed his blue eyes, he allowed himself to see his wife's face, soft and smiling, her almond brown hair falling around her neck. She sparkled with love and joy. He always had taken it for granted that he had been able to come home to her.  
And Clarissa . how is heart broke when he thought of his daughter! She was a mere twelve years old. She had a child's sweet, gentle grin and beautiful hair that was just like her mother's. She was turning into a young woman and he couldn't be more proud of her.  
And then, with a sudden darkness, he remembered the speech his father had given about his grandfather, who had died in a sinking accident.  
"As every true man knows, a real Englishman must go down with his ship ."  
It hurt horribly to know that, out of courage and nobility, he had to die tonight. He wished he could just go home, in the comfort of his family. Their hearts would be broken.  
Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee!  
"Capitan! Capitan!" A young voice behind him brought him out of his memories. Was he really the same Edward Smith, Captain of Titanic, that he had been moments ago?  
He turned to face the woman behind him. She looked back with fear in her eyes, not of the man before her, but of the night that lay ahead. She was Swedish, perhaps, and her blonde hair was pulled roughly into a knot. She couldn't have been more than twenty, maybe not even that old. A shawl was slung around her shoulders.  
"Where should I go?" She asked. Watching his confused expression, she added, "Please."  
It was then he noticed that she was carrying a bundle in her arms. It was a tiny baby. Horrified, he watched as a tiny, perfect little hand reached out of the blanket, followed by small, soft little toes.  
There were no more boats. The baby . there were no more boats! The infant would . she would .  
The water lapped louder beneath him, hungrily.  
He could just stare at her, his mouth open wide, until he couldn't stand it any more. Finally, he turned away and began to walk to the bridge, his dress boots clicking on the floor.  
"Captain!" Another voice cried out. "Captain! Sir!"  
A crew member whom Edward had never met raced to him and held out a lifebelt. Good God. Could they possibly think that he could even try to survive while more than a thousand others struggled in the icy sea?  
He brushed the vest aside with his dignified shoulder and gazed ahead of him. Beneath the main steering wheel, the deck was already underwater. Barely suppressing a sob, he turned into the second wheel cabin and quietly shut the door.  
There let the way appear, steps unto heav'n;  
  
All that Thou sendest me, in mercy given;  
  
Angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to Thee.  
  
The water continued to slip over the ailing ship, threading its way down corridors and into rooms. Now the screams were chilling to the soul - they spoke of no hope, of horror, and of death. Terrified, men and women were thrown off of Titanic and into the ocean. The water penetrated instantly - icy, freezing, and unimaginably cold. They shook violently from the first second. Some shrieked and cried and wept, others were already still in the small waves. Children had been left abandoned on the ship when their mothers were thrown into boats and stood sobbing, looking helplessly about them. The tilt was steeper than it had been yet. Slowly, the propellers rose out of the water.  
Trudy, Rose's maid, held on for her life to a section of rail, her dress dragging her down. She looked up. This is our punishment, she thought. God is showing his power and might against the impossible. The stars twinkled back at her, affirming her assumption. It's in God's hands.  
  
Below, in the already flooded rooms, bodies drifted in the currents, beautiful dresses billowing. The windows shattered against the pressure as the massacre continued. The beautiful creation of Thomas Andrews was slashed by the force of the mighty Atlantic.  
There had been a time when all praised Titanic. All had marveled at its strength and luxury. It had been the pride and joy of Europe.  
Now she would lay in the ripples of mud on the bottom of the sea, silent for all eternity.  
Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee!  
Then, with my waking thoughts bright with Thy praise,  
  
Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;  
  
So by my woes to be nearer, my God, to Thee.  
  
In steerage, the Irish woman herded her two children back to their deserted cabin.  
"Mommy!" Her youngest one, her boy, Ryan, tugged at her sleeve as she shut the door.  
"Yes, darlin'?" She replied, having to work to keep the sobs out of her voice.  
"Mommy, when are we goin' on the boats? You said we were goin' on the boats when the rich people are all gone. They must be gone now!"  
Horror glazed over her heart. Yes, they were gone now. However, there were no more lifeboats left. Her precious children, both of them - they -  
She fell back on the bed, weeping, her tears falling like rain. Her husband in America, he would be so heartbroken. How would she get through it? She could almost feel the ice on her skin; hear the screams of her babies .  
"Mommy?" Now her girl, lovely little Katie, looked close to crying herself. "Mommy! What's wrong?" Her fine green eyes clouded with worry.  
She could do nothing but sob a response, her shoulders shaking. Dear God, don't take my children! Not my beautiful, precious, innocent children! I love them so much! Please .  
Anger filled her, anger at the steward who had kept them locked below, anger at the iceberg for gashing Titanic's hull, anger at the captain for keeping her children from safety.  
There was no other way to escape from the ocean, and she knew her children would die on the Ship of Dreams.  
"Darlings," she whispered, maintaining composure, "Mommy's just tired. So, so tired."  
"Daddy will make you feel better when we get to America," Ryan stated matter-of-factly.  
"I hope so. I hope so."  
Her eyes stared off into space, seeing Thomas' tears, his confusion, his hurt . She wished he knew she was thinking of him.  
My love, please don't mourn me.  
Taking a deep breath, she turned to her children. "Katie, Ryan, It is bed time. Time to sleep."  
Sleep into the eternal blackness of death. God, have mercy on my babies, have mercy on our souls!  
Without a murmur, they kicked off their boots and removed their outer coats; hanging them on the hooks by the door. Because of the accommodations, they both shared a bunk. The climbed in next to each other and snuggled under the covers. She removed Ryan's hat and placed it next to her on the floor.  
"Tell us a story, Mommy," Katie yawned, her eyes already closing.  
A story about the pain of letting go, of leaving it all behind. She searched her mind for a story to comfort the little ones.  
"Once upon a time," she began in a whisper, "there lived two children. They made their homes in a dark, dark world, a world whose people had lost the light and hope they had been created with.  
The only spot of happiness in Ireland was these two little children. They were angels sent from heaven."  
She hardly heard herself speak as she told the tale of her own two babies. They lay listening, wanting to hear it all. Their eyes were wide with interest and belief. She allowed them to watch her keenly, but her heart was elsewhere. In Ireland. With Thomas. In the sea with her children.  
Two months ago, Katie had first seen death. Her grandfather was a ripe old age and had passed quietly in her sleep. It was then that Hope had decided to join Thomas in America, knowing she couldn't wait any longer.  
"Mommy?" Katie had asked, her fine green eyes wide with fear.  
"Hmm?" Hope had replied, sitting by the cot where the man now lay, washing his face for burial. She had asked Mary to take the children for her, but Mary had other things to do. Ryan was outside playing, but Katie wouldn't leave her mother. Death affected her more than her younger brother.  
"You're never goin' to leave me, are you?" She spoke with tears in her voice. "And what about when I die? Will it hurt?" She suddenly started to cry.  
Hope threw down the damp cloth and rushed to her child, taking her in her arms and smoothing her hair. "Oh, darlin', I will never leave you. I'll always be right here. Shhh."  
"Mommy, I'm afraid! I'm afraid to go to heaven! I don't want it to hurt!"  
"Baby, it won't hurt. You're so young; you don't need to worry about this! You will die when you are old so you can see Jesus. It's just like going to sleep - you won't feel a thing at all. Except you'll wake up to see God. And everyone you know will be there."  
The six-year-old eyes had widened. "Oh . good. As long as it doesn't hurt."  
"Why are you so worried? You are still so small and you have your whole life ahead of you. Shhh . there now."  
It would hurt. Hope could almost feel the pain of the icy depths that were swallowing the ship. She braced her children with her body as the ship continued to climb higher and higher. She barely noticed the story was almost finished.  
"And so they lived, in the land of Tear and Knogg, land of eternal youth and beauty."  
She watched the look on her children's faces as they snuggled to each other, satisfied. Slowly, their eyes closed as they fell asleep.  
Panicked, Hope watched their green orbs as they fell behind soft eyelids. It was the last time she would ever see them again. Now she cried openly. Maybe it wouldn't be so painful for them if they were sleeping. She stroked Ryan's brown strands and Katie's long red curls. Their faces turned tender with the sweet dreams of a child.  
She gathered the resting babies in her arms, her tears falling on their faces, her heart breaking. She looked at Ryan. He had such acting talent, even at a young age. She could see him in the new moving films or speaking in plays. There was such promise in his life.  
And Katie . her voice could take the chill out of a January morning and paint a smile on the stormy sky. She was gifted with any instrument and when she danced her feet left the floor. She had the makings of a famous musician. Her crying turned to weeping as she was haunted with what-might-have- beens.  
Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee!  
Or, if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,  
  
Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I'll fly,  
  
Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee.  
  
Isaac held his wife close to his body as they lay on the bed. They had been married for fifty-one years. He couldn't love her anymore than he did. He had begged her to get on a lifeboat but she had refused. Her words still rung in his head.  
"We have lived together many years. Where you go, I go."  
With that, she had thrown herself into his arms, and he had quietly backed away from the lifeboat line. She knew what she had risked by staying with him and she refused to be swayed otherwise.  
"I'm so afraid," she murmured now, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I'm so very afraid."  
Isaac didn't answer. He simply squeezed her tighter. He was terrified. They had decided that if one must go, the other was going too. Calmly, they had returned to their stateroom to wait death. Anyone who wasn't afraid now wasn't human.  
He felt so helpless, just waiting to die.  
There was a crash and their door was ripped off of its hinges. Water began to sweep into the room, churning over the fine carpets and swirling over the furniture.  
There was a frenzied scream from his wife. He had known the fullness of what was going to happen, but it was obvious she hadn't. She began to weep. The tears fell on the fine bed comforter and stained Isaac's heart. It hurt to see her in so much pain and terror. Now the sea was beginning to seep around their bodies. He held her closer and kissed her silver hair. She continued to cry as she leaned back into his arms. His eyes closed.  
"I'll be waiting ." He whispered .  
Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee!  
There in my Father's home, safe and at rest,  
  
There in my Savior's love, perfectly blest;  
  
Age after age to be, nearer my God to Thee.  
  
Now, Captain Smith nervously fingered the steering wheel. He had watched the blue-green water rise against the bridge windows and he knew they couldn't hold much longer.  
He looked around him, suddenly remembering the baby. Please, God, let the baby live. He felt so stupid now, remembering his thoughts just weeks earlier.  
"Captain, there aren't enough boats for the whole lot," Thomas Andrews had stated while checking over the ship. "I can install more. I think that would be best."  
"Oh Thomas," Edward had scoffed. "This is the unsinkable Titanic we are discussing! We don't need any more lifeboats. It would take too much space. Make the deck look too cluttered. No, this is exactly the way it should be."  
Thomas had nodded. There were only enough boats to fit about a thousand people when more than two-thousand had already booked passage.  
God, they had needed those boats. If only he had accepted Mr. Andrew's proposal. His heart chilled when he recalled the same man's words two hours ago.  
"The water will spill over the water-tight bulkheads, at E-deck, back and back and back . There's no stopping it."  
  
"The pumps!" Edward had exclaimed triumphantly. "If we hook them up we could -"  
"The pumps buy you time," Mr. Andrews had interrupted, out of patience. "But minutes only."  
Realizing what he was saying, the captain looked at him in horror.  
"From now on, no matter what you do," the Irishman had continued, "Titanic will founder."  
There was a stone silence.  
"But this ship can't sink!" Bruce Ismay, director of White Star Line, yelped.  
"She's made of iron, sir," Thomas had returned curtly. "I assure you, she can. And she will."  
That was when Edward had known he wouldn't be returning to his home, with his wife and child. He missed them already and he shuddered at knowing what heartbreak they would go through.  
"Oh my dears," he murmured, "I love you both." He wished they knew his last thoughts were of them.  
He played his fingernails on the wood of the steering wheel as he heard the windows groan. This is it. God! Here it is! He thought. He lowered his head instinctively.  
He didn't have time to complete the movement. The glass shattered and solid walls of water threw themselves upon him. The power and cold of the sea was the last thing his mind registered before the ocean closed over him.  
Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee!  
  
Wally played the last, sweet note. He didn't know what was truly happening in the water below him or what would happen in the minutes to come. The sea was racing up the deck. He hoped his prayer of song had been heard. Somehow he knew it had.  
He knew his world would be crashing down soon, very soon. As terrified passengers clawed their way up the deck, he spoke to his fellow players, never taking his eyes off of the waiting Atlantic.  
"Gentlemen, it has been a privilege playing with you tonight."  
His heart began to pick up pulse as he finally looked up to the stars. He closed his eyes and felt a fresh breeze around his chilled body. As he began to pray for his blessed Savior, his feet were suddenly pulled out from under him.  
The ocean tore him and swept him down the deck, throwing him against several metal objects. Pain enveloped his mind. Without warning it was as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest. All of his regrets and hurt were wiped away into total blackness.  
  
Thomas Andrews knew now that there was almost no time left. He was drowning in memories of his wife and child, recalling their sweet voices and love-filled eyes. He hoped they would be alright without him. He spoke to them, in his mind, begging them to go on with their lives and not to feel the pain he was feeling now.  
The familiar guilt came back as he heard the screams from outside. Out of the 2,200 people on bored, he knew that a thousand would not make it home. Why did the world have to be so cruel? Several times in his life, he had complained bitterly about small things that had caused discomfort - little food, the loss of salary, a banked fire . He now realized how foolish it had all been. This, tonight, was truly unfair. He could imagine the sparks that would explode as the Titanic slipped beneath the waves, the shrieks of the people left in the dark Atlantic, the blackness of the seas.  
Then there would be silence.  
He paused now, looking at the orange embers in the ashes, and glanced at the clock on the mantle. He had to brace himself using the wall because of the ship's angle. His glass of wine crashed to the floor and went rolling past him.  
The time was wrong. It had stopped at 2:00 A.M. He exhaled deeply. Time would stop tonight for all of the souls left onboard, all of the children .  
He took out his pocket watch and closely examined it. It was still working and read 2:12. He opened the face of the elaborate clock in front of him and appropriately set it. Now time would stand still.  
As his tears fell, he leaned back to look into the yellow and orange flickers of the dying fire. Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!  
  
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,  
  
Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee. Nearer, my God, to Thee,  
  
Nearer to Thee! Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,  
  
Darkness be over me, my rest a stone.  
  
Yet in my dreams I'd be nearer, my God to Thee. Nearer my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! There let the way appear, steps unto heav'n;  
  
All that Thou sendest me, in mercy given;  
  
Angels to beckon me nearer, my God, to Thee. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Then, with my waking thoughts bright with Thy praise,  
  
Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;  
  
So by my woes to be nearer, my God, to Thee. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Or, if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,  
  
Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I'll fly,  
  
Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! There in my Father's home, safe and at rest,  
  
There in my Savior's love, perfectly blest;  
  
Age after age to be, nearer my God to Thee. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! 


	12. Where We First Met

**Okay everyone. Tonight, at Halloween, at 10:02 P.M., I am posting this chapter. I was gonna wait till tomorrow but I couldn't - suspense was too great(. Trying to update ASAP. As always, will y'all please review? Any of those who want to, please send any comments to Kayla at this address - Titanic4eternity@houston.rr.com. Thanks!**  
  
Jack finished tying Rose's lifebelt straps as they leaned against the promenade wall. The song the band had been playing haunted him, in particular the last verse. They had even given up hope.  
There in my Father's home, safe and at rest,  
  
There in my Savior's love, perfectly blest;  
  
Age after age to be, nearer my God to Thee.  
The band had suddenly become silent. He shivered, not wanting to know why. Rose backed up a bit against him and he took in the scent of her - rose water and fruit - and kissed her hair. He realized she was shaking with terror. As he looked over the side of Titanic, he saw why.  
Tens of people were so terrified that they were throwing themselves into the water. The women's skirts billowed around their ankles as they shrieked in midair, landing with a horrible splash in the water. Droplets of ice rained on the ship's hull in the aftermath.  
Rose looked at him, confused and needing an answer. No one knew what was going to happen when the ship went under - would she explode or just slip beneath the waves? Was it best to jump off now or go down with her? Her blue-green eyes shined like glazed jewels as she searched his face, determined that he would know what to do.  
He didn't, not really. He had never been in a situation like this. As his eyes closed, he allowed his memory to drift back to just a few short hours ago, was that all it had been? A sunset, a breeze, a ship crashing through the waves, soft tender lips against his . . . and then gentle orange light, a charcoal pencil, and the most beautiful woman he had ever known . . . a car, passionate kisses, the feeling of skin mingling with skin . . .  
Unexpectedly, tears began to form in his eyes. He blinked them away, his heart tearing in two. It hurt. It hurt too much to remember and even more to forget.  
He felt Rose's eyes on him again, and he gazed back into them. Love shined in both souls. Somehow he had to try. He searched his mind - not the water. The water would kill in minutes.  
"We have to stay on the ship as long as possible," he yelled over the horrible sounds surrounding him - splashes and screams and shouts. "C'mon!"  
Rose's expression of distress eased somewhat when she realized that there was still a way to survive. She clung to Jack's arm as he pulled her upwards, to the stars . . .  
To the stars.  
She tingled with the familiar rush that could only come from Jack's hands and lips as he stopped and held the railing to catch his breath. The deck was so steep now that he was finding it almost impossible to reach the stern.  
He turned slowly and saw Rose gazing over the sea. She was remembering another place, another time. He didn't want to think about how badly her soul would be scarred after seeing such horror tonight. Softly, he planted a kiss on her cheek. She turned and, he could see, wanted badly to deepen it, but there was no time. Smiling gently, she allowed him to continue the ascent.  
Around them, people milled in the smothering sickness of fear. Rose's heart pounded like a thousand drums. Nothing could be worse than this. Absolutely nothing. Not wars, nor bombs, nor death. Nothing could fill her with such terror that she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her body was physically exhausted, but her mind was alive with the horror of the thoughts that raced through her body.  
Mr. Andrews - would he survive? What about Jack's friends, Tommy and Fabrizio? He would be devastated. She knew how much Jack Dawson treasured his friends, especially Fabrizio, whom he seemed to have known for years.  
And Cora . . . oh Cora. Rose wept at the thought of such a small, perfect child in the icy clutches of the North Atlantic. She remembered the little girl's pink cheeks and round nose, her smile when Jack spun her around, her cute little words ringing through the air like bells . . .  
Rose had only known these people for such a short amount of time, yet her heart broke at the thought of anything happening to these people, especially something as painful as death.  
Jack.  
As much as it hurt to think of the others, she could barely breathe at the weight inflicted on her soul at the thought of Jack. If he wasn't alright after tonight - she couldn't go on. She wouldn't go on.  
The screams of the people around her heightened as her foot slipped on the deck, causing her to come back to reality. Jack was dragging her up the stern, which was continuing to climb higher into the velvet sky. They were almost there -  
This time she completely lost balance. Her expensive fabric shoe slid on a wooden plank. Panicking, she groped for Jack's arm as her feet was suddenly torn out from under her.  
"Jack!" She shrieked. Her body dropped to the deck. "Jack!" She needn't have bothered. Before she could utter another sound, two strong hands grabbed her round the middle and hauled her over to the rail on the side of the ship. She found herself staring into those electrifying blue eyes, eyes that were now begging her to trust him.  
She trusted him.  
"Rose," he murmured. "Rose, are you okay?"  
No, she wasn't okay. She wasn't okay at all. The world was falling from beneath her, and the ocean was the only thing below. Death was hovering in the air she breathed, and the only thing that her mind could register was terror. Pure, raw, painful terror.  
She was about to say such when she felt him move closer to her. His body melted against hers, his thin white shirt pressing against the overcoat and dress. He held her steadily by the elbows, and deepened eye contact. In order to look at her more intensely, he flipped a blonde strand out of his face. Behind him, he was bordered with stars. All her fear melted away at his touch. Under it, there was only one thing - a will of steel to survive.  
She nodded.  
Jack smiled, heartened by her sudden strength. He was tired, but somehow, looking into her eyes, all traces of exhaustion vanished into thin wisps around him.  
He looked for a moment below. His horrified mind was forced to register the pain of others - people flailing in the ice of water and others splashing besides them. For the first time he saw death - a still, lifeless body of an officer drifting in the gentle waves of the sea. He gasped sharply.  
It would get so much worse.  
He was suddenly shoved with a need to go faster and get to safety while he could. In a matter of seconds, the deck beneath him tilted more. He knew that the time was almost gone - the time of present and past to future and unknown. The terror that clawed at his heart in these moments was indescribable, and, to keep Rose from seeing his tears, he drove onward.  
His feet fought against the tilt of Titanic as a determination to save Rose captured his mind in resounded love. Every step he took was for her - for her beautiful self, inside and out, her long red curls, soft blue- green eyes, creamy skin, silver laugh . . . and the fire the flamed within her, that made her his Rose.  
"Hail Mary, full of Grace . . ." Rose turned to her right and froze. A pastor who was a passenger aboard Titanic stood on a metal tool fixed to the ship's deck. He held the hands of the hopeless others who were clustering around him, some falling to kneel and pray, some groping for something to hang on to, all focusing on the Father.  
"Be with us sinners in the hour of our death, Amen."  
When Rose heard the Father say this, her body felt like a pool of water. In the hour of our death . . . it hadn't really occurred to her that she might die tonight. She was sure that the water wouldn't dare kill Jack or herself, knowing that they needed to be together for today and eternity.  
But then she remembered that the sea had no heart and no feeling for love or death.  
She clung more fiercely to Jack's arm, trembling. It was as if there was no way to escape - she was being smothered. He was watching the preacher like he was spellbound, afraid, amazed, and sad all at once.  
Little did Rose know, Jack was remembering his own small church in Chippewa Falls, the little five-roomed white-washed building in which he had spent every Sunday with his parents. He could still see his father; tall, strong, and handsome in a rough kind of way, and his mother, small, loving, and tender . . . he missed James and Anna Dawson more than he had in a long, long time. Then, in his mind's eye, he say flames, a fire, leaping and burning into a million different shapes on the fine green grass, jumping up to the black sky. Then the screams . . . "Jack? Jack? Where are you?"  
Why was his mind torturing him with these memories? He had felt guilty for five long, damned years and had heard those shrieks every night in his dreams . . . with two exceptions. Last night and the night before, all he had dreamt about was Rose DeWitt-Bukater. It had been eternal bliss, feeling her against him, kissing those soft lips, thinking up things that he had thought would never happen.  
He remembered those dreams coming true just hours before. His heart was thudding like a drum at those memories that seemed so ancient and yet so unexplored that he was overcome by unfairness. It wasn't right for love to be given so openly and then snatched away.  
No! It wasn't going to happen that way. He wasn't going to let anything take Rose away from him like Pa and Ma. Heaven help hell if Satan tried to interfere. He was hers and she was his, they were one now and for eternity.  
"C'mon," Jack murmured, trying to break out of his thought for Rose. Even if it was just for Rose, he needed to survive. Every step he took made the future.  
She followed him, tears starting to stream from her eyes. Her body was screaming against every move she completed. It hurt. She was so tired. So tired of death and dying, of blood and sacrifices, of pain and hurt. Why couldn't this night be over?  
For a second, she allowed herself to entertain the possibilities of giving up. Heaven . . . that didn't sound so bad, did it? It was then that she remembered that she was thinking the same way she had on the night when she almost considered suicide.  
No, Rose was not ready to die yet.  
"C'mon!" Jack yelled as he finally grabbed the rail on the stern of the ship. They were at the complete top of Titanic. Gasping for breath, Rose threw herself against his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around her and hold her safe. In that moment she felt as though maybe, just maybe, everything would be alright. She clutched at his shirt to hang onto him tighter. He was her foundation, her soul. If he was strong, she could be too.  
Somehow she managed to glance to the right of her. There, with tears shining in terrified eyes and blonde hair sticking to pale cheeks, hung on a girl that looked so familiar . . . if only Rose could put a name to that face. Her breath was coming in thin, ragged, gulps. Rose managed to smile at her. It would be okay. It would be fine.  
Helga. The realization hit Rose like a stone. It was Fabrizio's friend from the third-class dance. Her name was Helga and she was from Northern Europe somewhere, Sweden? She knew that Fabrizio and Helga had been starting to fall in love, where was he?  
She looked around desperately and could see nothing. A fear as white and chalky as her skin arose in her throat. If he wasn't with Helga, he couldn't be alive. Fabrizio would never leave Helga.  
The night of a thousand stars, a thousand deaths.  
Shivering, Rose pressed herself closer to Jack. She looked around, remembering Titanic as the majestic, mighty ocean liner that glided across still water hours before.  
Jack was staring around him, terrified. He didn't know if he could possibly stand it anymore - the screams were boring into his mind and driving steel nails into his heart. God, he wanted to get out of here. Anything to get out of here. The desperation began to claw at him. He was overcome by a ferocious need to grab at his throat, to jump off of Titanic, to get his death over with. His mind was focusing only on the pain, the pain that would cut through his skin and bone to his soul -  
"Jack!" He looked down and saw Rose against his body. It was a miracle, in the midst of chaos, to have his senses take in the sight of her. Her curls were blowing around her face and tangled with salt, but they still gleamed that fire shade that they always had. Her lips were still luscious curves of red. Her eyes, those pools of emeralds and sapphires, were searching his for a reassurance, any reassurance at all.  
"This is where we first met," she murmured, her face breaking into her beautiful smile. It stunned him, what she said. He hadn't been paying attention. But he looked and saw she was right. This is where he had fist spoken to the girl he had already fallen in love with. She had looked like a distressed angel sent down from heaven. In his mind, he could still see her - her red silk, black-beaded dress snapping around the rail in the wind, tears streaking her cheeks, windblown locks billowing across her face. Now she was that same troubled saint, but now she was looking deep into his eyes like she trusted him. He knew she did. She was so innocent, so beautiful.  
If there was one thing Jack Dawson had ever known, it was at that moment. He knew that he loved her. He knew she was putting her life in his hands. And he knew that he would cross heaven and earth a million times just to save her from the ocean's depths.  
With new determination, he pulled her closer to him and kissed the top of her forehead. 


	13. Just to Stay With You

**Hi everyone! There are a lot of new stories coming out, I applaud you new authors and you older ones that are giving another shot! This chapter is mostly about Jack's memories and a lot of the horrible things that took place before Titanic's lights went out. It's not as moving as the actual film, so I recommend you watch Titanic sometime in the near future. Enjoy and R&R!**  
  
Rose trembled beneath his chin. She was searching, terrified, around her. She didn't know what she was looking for - she knew rescue was behind hope. Maybe she was trying to find some sort of indication that this was all a dream, all a bitter, horrible, fear-filled dream.  
There was no such indication. Her eyes did find something, but, if anything, it added more ice to her frozen heart and numbed her mind.  
  
Margaret's child was pressed against her heaving, cold chest. The deck was rising and her footing was getting more slippery. In a useless effort, she propped herself against a metal disk that rose from the wood. Her tears were freezing on her white cheeks and her terror was clawing at her throat. She had never expected this.  
Margaret had boarded Titanic with her little four-year-old boy, William, after her husband Charles had died. She had known that any attempt at a true life without her spouse would be found only in America. England was not the place for a young widowed mother who had been married out of wedlock. And then, imagine her luck! She had secured a ticket on the grandest ship in the world and would be bringing her child to the Land of Dreams. She had entertained such high hopes -  
And now it was all gone. She hadn't believed that Titanic was actually sinking until it was too late. She could have gotten a boat with William, but no, she had been too afraid that he would catch cold out on the ocean. She had thought it was only a drill. Now her mistake would cost her child's life. Such iciness and despair had never before existed in a mother's soul.  
She felt something warm and wet seeping through her thin dress and into her shoulder. Oh God, Will was crying. It unleashed horrors in her that she hadn't known existed. Every instinct in her started blaring red. What had happened to the life she had dreamed of? Her son would have secured an education, married a beautiful, kind woman, had a family of his own, become someone . . . She felt devastated that her own selfish disbeliefs has ended her child's goals and hopes and ambitions.  
That was what a child was, right? A little spot of golden light in the darkness of today's world. A promise of a tomorrow that was brighter than yesterday. Now it seemed that the future that could have been would disappear beneath the sea. A world that might have existed was dying with the hundreds of children that had been left on the Titanic. Sobs wracked her body. Why was God so cruel?  
God had given her such joy in her life. She remembered her wedding day, when her stomach was already soft and round with five months along of a baby. With even more happiness, she found herself thinking about that beautiful, windy February morning that the little boy had finally been placed, squalling, into her sweaty arms. She had tenderly stroked his wisps of dark hair and had cooed into his perfect big blue eyes and played with his gentle little fingers and toes. William, she had named him, a sturdy, strong name. She had vowed to protect him for life and beyond.  
Her heart wrenched. Her insides were torn. Her mind melted. Was she breaking her vow? She began to pray, not a prayer of mercy and forgiveness or even deliverance, but one of anger.  
How could you? Her brain screamed. How could you be so selfish? How could you take my little boy from me? Don't you have enough angels? DON'T YOU?! Do you really need another little saint? I know you have big plans for him in heaven; I know you want him to serve Up High for you. I know I'm being jealous. But please, please. I need him more than you. Please save us. Please don't let him die out there, in the darkness, in the cold, in the hate, in the Atlantic. You've taken angels for generations, but you managed before you had them. So please, I'm begging you, sacrifice one little cherub for me. Keep him and me on Earth. He has so much he can do here . . . do you really need him? You are God, Lord. Can't you manage without him? Oh don't take him, don't take Will.  
"Mommy? I don't like this ship anymore. When's our trip gonna be done? I wanna go back home." The sound of her son's voice shook her back to the reality of the screams and the horror and the pain. Now, as Will cuddled closer to her, she began to weep. Why pretend to be strong? In truth, she was absolutely breaking down inside, tearing into a million tiny pieces, like shattered glass. Crazy memories filled her mind - her last argument with her parents, sitting by Charles' death bed, the bright breaking of a fresh dawn on a sky stained with warm colors. . . all of the things she had taken for granted but would never be able to experience again. And Will - she couldn't even remember when she was five. Will would not have been able to remember his short life.  
What did pretending help?  
She gazed over the vast ocean at something only she could see - the opening of a new world with new hopes and thoughts and ideas. She didn't know where she was headed, but maybe she was never meant to leave Titanic.  
Light, soft tears streamed down her rough face and plopped onto Will's shirt. She drew him closer to her body and resigned them to their terrible fate. "It'll all be over soon," she whispered, trying and failing to sound soothing. "It'll all be over soon."  
Her son began to cry harder.  
  
Rose stared at the painful scene in front of her. This poor, poor woman and her child - all at once her heart broke thinking of what they must be going through. It was like how she was now - she couldn't stand to think of losing Jack.  
It was not fair. They had just fallen in love and allowed themselves past the rate of society. She had broken through social class to meet him and had clashed through the chains of wealth. She was willing to risk everything - anything - just to be with him. Nothing had ever been so sweet and beautiful and pure and true. God really wouldn't take it away from her, would he?  
She heard Jack's breathing become more ragged and his chest heaved up and down more erratically. She was trying not to look beneath her, to the long, long fall to below, but for him it was inevitable. His ocean blue eyes were wide with terror, horror, and compassion for those that were meeting painful ends. His breath froze in smoky clouds in her hair and she pushed even closer to him, as though she could keep out the rest of the night just by holding onto him. Somehow, he made her feel that way - that if he was there nothing could harm her.  
Sickened, she heard a scream right beside her. A young man, maybe a few years older than Jack, had climbed onto the rail. He had been getting desperate, she could tell, by the way he had looked nervously around him and the sweat had broken out on his forehead. All at once, he had pushed himself off the stern and over the far side of the ship until he was dropping, dropping, dropping, past the red belly of Titanic and beneath the propellers. She saw the splash as his body slammed into the sea a good 300 feet later. Her stomach turned, her vision blurred, and she realized she had started crying again. Jack's arms tightened around her waist and she could feel his lips against her curls and forehead, again and again, like he was trying to kiss away all the pain and hurt she was seeing and feeling. It didn't go away, but the sharp, knifing edge to it eased somewhat at such an open declaration of his love. Cal would never do that, ever. Come to think of it, she had never wanted him to. Only Jack would ever hold her like this, only and always Jack. She loved everything about him, his warm, light scent of sandalwood and charcoal, his free spirit, his artist's soul, the way he could bring even the deadest things to life on paper, his gentle but rough hands, his blonde, long, streaked hair, and his blue, blue eyes - those eyes that could gaze into her heart and calm her mind. His smile - the smile that cracked across his face so unexpectedly and softened his features make Rose's knees turn to jelly beneath her. Oh Jack, she thought desperately, her hands moving gently over his back, how could I have ever lived without your smiles? Tears were now falling down her white face as she held onto his shirt for dear life, staring with needing eyes at his form while he watched around her, trembling at the sight of all the death and destruction like a little boy.  
He could feel her gaze on him and glanced down again, surprised to see such sudden franticness in her body. Trying to take it away, he leaned down and slowly kissed her. They didn't have enough time for a true kiss, but it was enough to keep Rose going. She moved against him, holding him tighter, as his arms squeezed her closer. He would keep her safe. Yes, Jack Dawson would keep her safe.  
Suddenly the bow took a sudden dive and the stern rose even more, until it was almost vertical. Loud cracks echoed in their ears and, horrified, they watched as the moorings holding the fourth smokestack snapped. The lines shot back into the faces of people thrashing in the water. Rose began to shake so hard that Jack literally had to support her to keep her from falling and slipping down and down and down . . . into the deep soul of the ocean.  
Her eyes widened as she watched the funnel sway, is if in a soft, light spring breeze. For a moment, it seemed as if the righteous tower would correct itself and fail to fall, as Titanic struggled to stay alive and majestic of the gleaming surface of the sea. But then, in a split second, it began to topple until finally its base was cut away. The screams elevated and everyone froze in terror. Then, almost as if in slow motion, the funnel crashed into the Atlantic, sending a tidal wall of water up the ship's deck and surging across the empty blackness into the horizon. And then the orange smokestack was gone.  
Jack's heart sliced his ribs like a knife. Tens of people had been in that exact section of the water. With ragged breaths, he imagined their last moments - the horror, the fear, the acceptance, and then the pain. Pain that filled their brain until they went limp and left their bodies as crumpled heaps drifting forever silent to the ocean floor.  
With all of his strength, Jack tried not to burst out weeping. Rose was not so successful. Her face was a maze of tear trails, her eyes were glazed with horror and terror and the loss of hope. Maybe she had just realized how awful it all was - the might and force of nature. There were no words to describe exactly what the two young lovers were feeling at the moment, and they both doubted that there ever would be. The English language was so inferior and paled in comparison to the bravery, the love, the hurt, the pain, the joy, and the courage that two thousand two hundred people were displaying tonight.  
Rose's thoughts and worries were sliced in two by a sudden jerk and groan from Titanic - and then the noises started. Huge crashes, cracks, and bangs began to fill her ears and overwhelm her senses. She tried to clap her hands to her head to drown out the sounds - but they got louder and louder, determined to reach her, determined to drive her to insanity.  
"What . . . is . . . that?" She screamed, reminded of another time she had yelled over such a roar. The times with the boiler room, the heat, the fire, the car, and the passion seemed so far away now. Maybe those times would never be back. Maybe they would. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was not experiencing them with anyone else except Jack Dawson. Not Caledon Hockley, nor any other man on this Earth.  
Jack looked confused for a moment, his face uncertain. Then, as if someone had cleared a window, he lit with understanding. "The things inside the ship!" He shouted back, leaning down close to her. "The furnishings, the beds, the plates, the chairs - they're all falling and crashing because of the tilt! They can't stand straight anymore!"  
He imagined doors being popped open by the weight of the water, the beautiful wooden, gold, and marble fixtures being broken and swallowed by the sea. The images were suddenly icy as he thought of the people still trapped in the bowels of the huge ocean liner, and he fought them out of his mind.  
Rose knew now. She knew that no matter how hard she fought it, Titanic was sinking. It would founder to the bottom of the Atlantic and take more than a thousand people with it. Suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but hold on to Jack and pray he wouldn't let her go.  
He wouldn't. Jack held onto her tight, thinking only of saving her, knowing he would never be able to stand himself if he didn't whether it be in heaven, hell, or Earth. He hated seeing the look of pain and fear on her face, he hated feeling responsible, he hated knowing that she was going to have to endure something so much worse than this.  
Jack, the terrified part of his mind whispered slyly, is this how you treat someone you love? Everyone you love seems to die - your mother, your father, and now probably Rose. All of your friends are at your cost; you told them to go check the other side. If Tommy and Fabrizio don't survive, it's your fault. Do you enjoy killing people like this?  
Isn't it strange how evil memories come just when you don't need them? When you are working hard to fight them? Like a ghost from the past, wisps of that day back on September 4, 1907 flashed through his mind, vividly haunting him.  
The day was bleak. Clouds dotted the horizon and promised rain. Everyone was overjoyed - the drought has lasted for so long and now all the crops and grasses were dusty with yellow and brown. Before the storm rolled in though, hot winds began blowing into Chippewa Falls, swirling everything in its path. The sun still tried bravely to glint beyond the fog and dark edges of landscape.  
Fifteen-year-old Jack Dawson was sitting on the steps leading to the front porch of his house, drawing the scene in front of him. Matthew, the little boy from the farm a few miles down the road, and his sister Elizabeth were running through the now wasted corn fields, playing a useless game that was a mix of tag and hide-and-go-seek. Jack smiled. He was too old for that now, but the child within him still ached to go join them. Lately, though, he had been helping Pa out more on the farm. Soon winter would come and that meant ice fishing to catch fresh fish to sell at the market. He shivered at the prospect of ice fishing. Two winters ago he had fell through a patch of thin ice. The intense cold had swept through his body, and he had known he was gonna die - known, that is, until Pa had swept him out with his bare hands.  
No matter. He was older, wiser now. He knew how to test the ice and how to get himself out of the lake if he got trapped. His father had taught him that immediately after the incident.  
His grin widened as he sketched one last line onto his drawing. He had a knack for art, he had to admit, and he loved it. Not that he didn't love the farms or Chippewa Falls, but someday, damn it, he wanted to get out of this sleepy town and sell his paintings and charcoal sketches everywhere.  
He sighed, lost in his daydream, when he heard his name.  
"Jack!"  
Grumbling, he looked up, shoving a strand of blonde hair out of his eyes. He had been a bit puny, even for a kid, but lately he was acquiring more muscle from hours upon hours of hard work. He had become more of a man, and he was proud of it.  
His light blue eyes fixed on the girl in front of him, Eliza, and he saw her shiver. For some reason, his gaze made everyone shiver - what was so awful about it? He admitted his eyes were a bit bluer and clearer and more intense than most, but it wasn't that scary.  
But this day, Eliza was staring at him longingly, wistfully, and just about strangely. For the first time, he looked at Eliza and he realized the shiver was not from fear; it was from like - maybe even love. His heart turned at the thought. Love? He could never love Eliza; it took all of his power to even like her in the least way. She was a bit snobby and a little nosy and thought that she was doing him a favor by letting him hang around her. That was far from the truth. Jack actually just watched out for her because some of the boys around town picked on her, and if it was one thing he couldn't stand, it was bullying. She was easy to want to bully on, sure. She was sorta round and chubby, with a huge roll for a stomach. Not that it mattered - lots of women in this sleepy little village looked like that anyway. Her hair was mousy brown and thinner in patches than others. Her eyes were brown too, but completely dead and tired. All of the signs of an old lady, and she was only fourteen.  
"What?" He mumbled, gruffer than he meant. He had just finished a picture and when that happened he was often distant and sharp to others, still in his little world of fantasy and perfection for a few more minutes.  
"Don't be so rude about it. Come on! Let's go in our spot by the lake. I'm bored, and I want to talk to you." Her thin lips came together in an almost pleading smile.  
Jack groaned noticeably. Their spot? Every chance she got, Eliza Peterson tried to show that she and Jack were friends. She knew he was in the more or less respected crowd of boys in town and was proud to show that they were friends. Sometimes, he thought suddenly, she hinted they were more than that, and it angered him. There was no one here that he was interested in, and that included her. No, his girl was waiting somewhere, someone as free and fiery as the breeze and as gentle and smooth as a rolling wave. Not Eliza.  
Still, he had nothing to do and was not in the mood for chores. "Idle hands are the devil's tools," Ma always said. If he was doing nothing, he would be ordered to some job or another - milking, cleaning, wringing out clothes, painting, fixing . . . the list went on and on.  
So he grudgingly nodded and heaved himself off the steps, tucking his sketch into his portfolio and placing it under his arm. Wherever he went, his drawings went.  
"Oh . . . thank you so much!" She squealed and looped her arm in his bent one. As their skin touched and her tight, ragged white and blue dress brushed him, he thought he would throw up. He fought not to jerk his hand out of the crook of her elbow and run. If there was one thing Pa had taught him, it was how to respect women.  
"Come on, Eliza - let's just go." She frowned and quickened her pace. Obviously she was trying to find a new tactic.  
"You are a completely wonderful artist, you know," she cooed sweetly.  
Jack didn't want to give in, but any mention of art broke his shell clean in half. He brightened. "I want to become someone famous one day," he said hurriedly. "Do you think I can?"  
"Of course. You certainly have the talent, Mr. Jack Dawson."  
Despite himself, Jack grinned. She seemed to melt into his smile, but he couldn't pull it back. He knew she was just flattering him, but it felt good to have someone other than his parents believe in him anyway.  
A few minutes later they entered the shady glen that was sheltered from the rest of the shores on the lake. They had recently discovered it - or Jack had, parting through the willow branches to escape Eliza. It was quite funny, actually. It was secretive, mysterious, and a bit romantic, this place. Sometimes, hell, all the time, he wished he was with someone else, anyone else, than Eliza Peterson. But he never voiced it. He always came, pretended to enjoy himself, and left, dreading the next time.  
Then he heard the screams.  
"Something's up at the old Dawson place!" He heard someone shout. "Look at the smoke!"  
Another voice yelled back, "God! Send help!"  
And just like that, Jack turned. He forgot Eliza, he forgot the lake, he forgot the glen. He scrambled up the rocky ledge and parted the branches of the trees.  
No! His brain cried. Not my parents! Please, let them be wrong, let them have made a mistake. Not James and Anna Dawson! Not my family, they're all I got, Lord.  
The minute his feet connected with the dirt path, he saw the billows of evil grey smoke.  
"NO!" He screamed and tore down the road, his feet kicking up dust. His house wasn't on fire, but the barn - oh God, the barn - was a ball of flames. The orange and yellow licks danced to the sky and threw shadows along the crisp, crumbling grass.  
He stumbled over rocks and stones that lay in front of him and fell. He could feel warm, wet blood seeping through his pants and shirt and face, but he didn't care. Baring his head, he ran faster. A drawing blew from his portfolio in the now strong wind and flew from him, but he didn't stop to retrieve it. Tears streamed down his cuts and his skin stung with salt. It took forever to race those last few steps. People had gathered from miles around with buckets and were throwing water on the fire from the well.  
"Ma!" Jack shouted. "Pa!" They didn't answer. He heard the sound of something huge and heavy crashing inside, a wooden beam, he guessed. A horse frantically whinnied and he knew all the others were gone. He dropped onto the ground, ignoring the soothing and comforting voices around him, feeling the heat of the flames on his body. Then it came.  
"Jack!" Someone inside shrieked. "Jack! Where are you?" Immediately he was on his feet.  
"Ma!"  
No one answered.  
He threw himself at the barn door, crying for his parents. He was singed by a light flicker.  
"MA! PA! DON'T LEAVE ME!"  
Silence. It was then he knew beyond doubt that they were gone. And it was his fault.  
He began to cry, cry so hard his shoulders shook. He fell back on the grass again, not noticing when strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him out of harms way.  
It was all his fault. He was sure that they had gone into the burning barn to look for him, and he had been out with Eliza. If only he had stayed, they would be here. Guilt swept through his heart. He half expected his father and mother to suddenly appear, laughing, saying it was all a sick joke. But he knew it wasn't. He knew they would never laugh again. He had been their only child, since his mother had birthing problems. He had done everything by his parent's side. Just this morning, he had congratulated himself on what a lucky person he was.  
Everything had been taken away from him in a minute of heat and flames and smoke, ever present smoke that was clogging his lungs and air.  
Jack laid there and sobbed for what seemed like hours, long after the fire had been watered down and finally burnt itself out, long after the other townspeople had left him alone, long after the rain had fallen. The now wet grass stuck to his clothes and his skin as he became chilled by the downpour. In front of him was a pile of wreckage that had been destroyed. Grey and black ash filled the spot where the barn had been. Two wooden logs were still intact. He knew, somehow, that the bodies of his parents had been taken away while he wept, but his horse was still there. So much destruction. It was his fault. He could still hear his mother's last words. Jack, where are you? Jack . . . Jack . . .  
He stayed right where he was all night, not sleeping, not eating, not moving, except to look at the stars. His father used to say that when you saw a shooting star it was a soul going to heaven. He found two and he wished then good luck, or tried to, but the only thing that came out of his lips were the words, "I'm sorry. Oh God, please don't be mad at me. I'm sorry. Ma? Pa? I didn't mean to, I didn't know. I'm so sorry . . . I'm sorry it hurt and I'm sorry I didn't get here on time. What kind of a son was I? I'm sorry . . ."  
The next morning he didn't notice the dawn, but when the stars began to vanish he panicked. It was like he was losing his parents all over again, losing the last wisps of their spirits.  
"Do you really have to leave me? Stay, please stay . . ." He murmured into the unbroken silence. There was no answer. He couldn't wait for the night again, he didn't want to have to face another day alone, sunken in the pity of his neighbors. He burrowed himself deeper in the icy, soaked strands of grass, trying not to focus on the sun piercing through his eyelids.  
"Jack?! Jack?! What . . ."  
A woman's voice, gentle and smooth with age, floated past the sun shafts and into his ears. This is what he had been afraid of. He couldn't stand it. He tried to ignore the person, but damn it, he could feel tears sliding down his smooth cheeks again. He was fifteen, why this much pain when he was so young? He was drowning in his guilt again, noticing only his mother's terrified screams . . .  
Someone grabbed his shoulders and tried to force him up to a sitting position, shaking him slightly. He refused to be risen.  
"Jack!"  
Finally, he cracked his eyes open. Mrs. Peterson, Eliza's mother, stood protectively over him, her green eyes flashing with worry.  
"Get up son. It's time for your parents' funeral."  
He didn't register her words. Parents? Funeral? What was she talking about? James and Anna Dawson were fine, just fine. His father was out back tending to the crops of corn and his mother was inside washing his clothes -  
Yet the overpowering smell of burnt wood, fire, and smoke filled his nose and he knew he couldn't block it out. His weeping burst into sobs, and Mrs. Peterson tried to hold him. He wouldn't allow it and pulled away, standing up.  
"Jack, don't do this, it wasn't my fault . . ."  
He hated to whining tone of her voice that was so much like her daughter's.  
"It was mine!" He screamed. He heard her shocked gasp behind him but he didn't care. Why in the hell would he care? He just ran, ran, ran. He tore past a row of apple trees that his father had so tenderly cared for.  
He found himself at the church. The walls sparkled white in the sunlight.  
"We are ending today with a small time in which we celebrate the lives of James and Anna Dawson . . ."  
  
The preacher's rich voice floated across the warm air to him. The funeral, it was really happening. Celebrate? Celebrate what? Why had they gone on without him?  
All of these thoughts ran jumbled through his mind.  
"The pulpit is now open to anyone who wishes to say a few words."  
Hesitantly, Jack leaned closer to the doorframe and watched as Mr. Barnes, a fisherman and a close friend of his father, walked shakily up front. His face was as pale as a ghost and his hands trembled. Startled, Jack saw tears in his eyes. He stopped in the center of the preacher's area.  
"I . . . God, folks, what can we say about James and Anna Dawson? We loved 'em, but not half as much as they loved each other, they were a good example for us all! They remained faithful and true to themselves forever, through all the years and years, and their son is wonderful, just wonderful . . ." He stopped for a moment. "A combination of them both - a little mischievous, really intelligent, handsome, kind, always willing to lend a hand . . . And we're gonna miss 'em, aren't we?"  
Somehow he managed to get himself down, and Old Ms. Pellom began to cry uncontrollably into her handkerchief.  
Jack walked unsteadily into the church. Everyone turned to watch him. He wasn't much to look at, never had been. He was wearing the same dusty brown shirt, light brown pants, tan suspenders, and old rugged leather boots. His hair had dried and was swinging in his eyes, which were cold and unfeeling, an icy blue. He didn't feel the rest of the town's gazes, but kept stumbling to the two plain pine wood coffins in the front. They dazzled golden in the morning dawn. He touched them softly, imagining the scorched bodies within.  
"Why did you have to leave me?" He asked gently, his voice deep like a man's, yet sad like the lost. "I miss you so much. You were supposed to stick around a little longer . . . be there for stuff like my wedding, my kids, my life. How do you want me to go on? Am I really that strong?" He didn't think so, not yet.  
"I loved you," he went on. "I still love you. You were my parents - you stayed with me through it all . . . I guess it's time for me to let you both go now, huh? Okay. You can go."  
He breathed back tears and let a feeling of hurt sweep over him. Holding back his pain was worse than letting it go, so he let it soar.  
He opened his eyes to watch the others all watching him, terrified and sad and looking like they would pity him for the rest of their lives. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was their sympathy.  
And then it happened. He felt the courage washing past the hurt, the bravery and independence he needed to make it on his own. He couldn't stay in Chippewa Falls anymore, he couldn't! Too many painful memories - all he needed was a set of clothes, a few handfuls of saved cash, and the open road.  
He was heading out to the horizon.  
The thought didn't comfort Jack as much as it once had. He had been only responsible for himself back then, but now he had Rose . . . he would protect her, God damn it, but it wasn't gonna be easy. A feeling of fear like he had never known and sadness like he had never felt, not even on that day back in Chippewa Falls, grabbed him vice-like by the chest. He could barely breathe from sheer earnestness of it. The darkness was closing in. There were sickening thuds as hundreds were slammed about on the ship before flying, some already dead, into the water.  
Had God really wanted this much death? Rose felt queasy thinking of the thoughts running through the mind of the Creator of the Universe. Maybe He didn't understand, maybe He thought that He would only cause a little tragedy to meet the world's challenge against Him, "It is unsinkable. God himself could not sink this ship!" She remembered Cal's words on that bright April morning, his normal arrogant grin in place, and she felt like she was going to be sick. If only he had known . . . wherever he was, what was he thinking? Had the horror finally pierced his cold heart?  
Another crash startled her. Titanic, the safest, most luxurious, most majestic liner ever built, was falling apart. How much longer could she hold? She would have to sink eventually.  
And when she did, only the blackest, coldest sea awaited Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt-Bukater. 


	14. Now

**Hi y'all! I FINALLY had the time to update, sorry for such a long period of waiting. No, NO, it doesn't get to THE PART yet, but it's close. On another subject - reviews have died down. Do me a favor, ok? Tell me whatcha think about this chapter!**  
  
Rose shivered more noticeably. She couldn't imagine the cold yet, not yet. She had been trapped in it below decks, swirled in it behind a locked gate, pounded with it down a hallway. She had watched the sea swallow the ship deck by deck, room by room. Yet she had not felt the pure icy fury of the North Atlantic, had not dreamed of the massacre that would take place by the water, the water that had looked so harmless and gentle only hours ago.  
Her thoughts were broken by a sudden huge groan that filled the night. It was the Titanic's death moans. Her heartbeat quickened. It seemed as if everything was still for one second.  
And then it was dark.  
The lights, which had been burning so brightly and so faithfully since the beginning of time, it seemed, staying lit even when the mountain of ice gashed its hull, were suddenly extinguished. Everything was as black as eternity, with the billions of stars offering a little amount of white light.  
All of the terror that Jack had been holding back overflowed his heart. Oh God, he thought. Not yet! I'm not ready; she's not ready, not now . . .  
All was silent as hell for a moment, and then the screams heightened. Everything was so unknown, so sentencing now, in the darkness. Titanic seemed frozen in time, already knowing the battle was lost, as the people of the human race shrieked and fell, their blood forever on the hands of the mighty ocean.  
It came in a burst of sound - tearing and twisting steel and metal. It was what Rose had least expected and she screamed, her cry echoing along the empty horizon of blackness. She threw herself as deep as she could into Jack's arms, trying to close her eyes, yet unwillingly unable to do so. Horrified, she saw the young boy from moments ago ripped from his mother's arms by the force of the tilt. He let out an anguished yell and began to flail as he slipped down the hull.  
"WILL!" His mother shrieked, holding tightly onto the white metal rail. The little child's body landed in the water with a splash, and he stayed silent and unmoving. "WILL! NO! WILL!" The woman continued to grieve in pain. She lost the will to live. Rose could barely watch as she let go and allowed herself to fall down to the sea. Her frame was banged into several sections of the ship and when she finally floated on the ocean, she laid still. Rose began to cry.  
The rivets were dashed with the weight of the stern. She turned her attention to the middle of the ship and saw, aghast, the boards of the ship's deck begin to split and tear, with a will of their own, and pull apart. She barely had time to register any emotion in her mind while Titanic gashed into two sections. She saw specks of people falling into the empty, gaping hole that had once joined bow and stern. Sparks and clouds of smoke burst into the air.  
Not this bad! Let it be over soon, please, not this bad, she thought silently as her mind pulsed and went numb while her heart froze over, an ice that would coat it for eternity. The sickening thuds echoed through the night as surely as they would forever as passengers were thrown through the dark, into the deep, foreboding blackness of the waves.  
"Jack!" She screamed. Suddenly the stern took a sudden dive and threw itself back level into the waves. She shrieked louder as she saw the hundreds of people that were beneath the ship. Her stomach ended in her throat. Her heart pounded in her head. Everything blurred into utter blackness as Jack held her more firmly with his body.  
For him, now was the test of time. Everything was happening so fast he couldn't think, and yet at the same time in slow motion so he was trapped in the horror of the moment for eternity. The people . . . oh God, the people. He could hear their screams, feel their pain, see their death.  
  
The dive suddenly ended as the stern of Titanic bobbed even in the waves. The black ruffles carried the people beneath the ship and seemed to flow into Jack's heart. The fear had been bad. He had been convinced it was terror. He thought it couldn't get any worse.  
It got worse.  
He was paralyzed. He could barely move. Every muscle was frozen in place. Fear like this had never existed before in a person's mind. Something shot right through him. ] Jack was never afraid. He had hit his life right on, had never stopped to worry about a thing. Not in the streets of New York, or Santa Monica, or Italy, or France, or London . . .  
And now he was terrified. If he felt like this, he could hardly imagine how Rose was feeling. He wanted to knife through heaven and Earth to save her. She had finally overcome Society and her life for him, had unleashed her love, and had been willing to give up everything the foundation of her family had been built upon. And what had he provided her with in return? Almost certain death, torture, and cold, unbearable, unthinkable cold.  
If there was one last wish he could make, it would be to get her outta here.  
The desire was made more desperate when, with a peal like thunder, the deck beneath him began to rise again.  
"God, no," Rose murmured and clutched his arm through his shirt. "No . . . please . . ." In that moment he would have fought heaven and hell to take away her panic and hurt. He held her tighter in his arms as the last attachment of the bow pulled the stern up, and up, and up . . .  
His feet were slipping; he was being pulled down, as if gravity was conspiring with water to end his life.  
"We have to move!" He yelled over the roar and groan of twisting metal. Rose trembled and felt instantly vulnerable when his arms let go of her waist. She grasped the railing tighter as she saw his strong, nimble body slipped past her. He heaved himself to the other side of the bars, his legs dangling past him. Finally, he swung around, lying on the white rails, stomach down.  
"C'mon! Give me your hand, I'll pull you over." He called to Rose, who was hanging with her body hanging and failing into space. His heart pounded as he grabbed her hands. Through it all the stern continued to rise.  
She gave a scream as she tried to pull herself up, but failed. She slid further down. Her breathing became desperate and pained. "I can't!"  
"C'mon! Give me your hand! I gotcha." He shouted down. He gripped her soft, creamy arms tightly. "I gotcha." She was shaking too hard to fight herself up. He pulled her up, not willing to let her give in to her tiredness. She was light and within seconds he had helped her beside him.  
  
The stern still ascended to the heavens, determined to reach the skies. It picked up speed. Rose's heart banged in her chest. If the ship fell like the smokestack, or exploded, or . . .  
"What's happening Jack?" She screamed, terrified. Jack always had an answer for everything.  
However, now, his voice was just as panic-stricken as hers when he replied. "I don't know! I don't know!" Her brain began to pulse in all different directions. He didn't know . . . Oh God! Jack didn't know! It was as if something happened to her in that moment. All the courage she had been building was suddenly melted away by intense cold and she was left as bare for bravery as the day she was born.  
She lay still as the stern suddenly froze in motion. "Jack!" She shrieked, unable to keep his name from escaping her lips. The word froze as a silver cloud in the air.  
"Rose!" He murmured back, clearly as afraid and uncertain as she. He grasped her more tightly around the waist and had no choice but to watch the sight around him.  
The end of the ship was standing like a tall, stark shadow pointing to the sky, as if showing the destination of the night. Like jewels littered across a sheet of black silk, the stars glimmered down on Titanic. Everything was silent.  
Trembling, Rose's eyes swept over the scene in front of her. She heard gasping beside her, the pain of breath that made her look to her right.  
Helga was still grasping the rail with everything that was in her, but it was obvious her strength was diminishing. She was shuddering so hard that her entire body seemed to be quivering. Her eyes were glimmers of iced, terrified, accepting blue. For a moment, it looked as if the sea was reflecting in those pools of color. Tears were frozen on her red, numb- looking cheeks. Each blonde curl was tangled and windblown. She was looking at Rose like she was asking her for something, begging for something. Rose didn't know what she could do - there was nothing left to do at all, except die. She might be racing away now, but eventually the death would catch up to her.  
In a moment, Helga was gone. Her hands slipped on the rail, grabbing, reaching for something that was not there. She screamed and suddenly plummeted through the air, trying to save herself, but no Savior was in sight.  
Terrified and sickened to the core, Rose turned to see a man on the rail, above where Helga had been. He was the only one who could have saved the girl - how could he not have? Her eyes penetrated his soul and, full of guilt, he turned away.  
Before Rose could think, the groaning began again. The stern slowly began to slip beneath the bubbling surface of freezing, salty waves.  
As the cracks of moorings, wood, and steel sounded, she began to tremble violently again. Jack moved half over her to protect her and hold her more firmly against his body.  
"This is it!" He shouted to be heard. Titanic continued to glide beneath the water. Small waves of sea washed up her deck and exploded into her innards.  
Rose's mind completely evaporated. She felt as if she were on the summit of a mountain and about to be pushed down. Her stomach left and her chest hurt. The fear was so bad she couldn't see right. She was so high above the ocean that she was dizzy. The temperature was starting to get to her now and she felt the coldness of it rub against her skin.  
"Oh God!" She cried, to petrified to care what she said. Jack held her tighter and moved to her side so he could talk to her better. She could feel his warm breath in her damp curls. Several men, all at once, let go of the ship and tumbled and crashed below, landing with a splash in the Atlantic. "Oh God! Oh God!" She repeated the same phrase over and over, in a way showing her fear and in another truly calling for the Lord's deliverance from such true hell.  
As the very end of the stern reached closer and closer to that shiny black surface, she vaguely heard a voice next to her. When she realized it was Jack, she froze to listen.  
"The ship is gonna suck us down," he was saying, squeezing her hand so hard it felt like her knuckles were cracking. She didn't care. She tried to squeeze his harder as if to ward off the coming doom.  
"Take a deep breath when I say," he continued. "Kick for the surface and keep kicking! Do not let go of my hand."  
She nodded to show she understood, but in truth she was still comprehending his words. She would never let him go, not ever.  
"We're gonna make it Rose," he yelled over the roar of the now extremely close water. He seemed to be certain of it himself, and trying to reassure her. If only she could feel the same. "Trust me."  
She remembered another time about trust - the sunset and breeze, the feeling of two souls becoming one . . . Her Jack would never mislead her.  
"I trust you!"  
He turned from her and shifted his gaze below him. There was no time left. She could feel the spray on her skin.  
"Ready? Ready?!" Jack tried to prepare her, but she wasn't ready. She wanted to scream no, but before she could, he yelled, "NOW!" 


	15. It'll Be Alright Now

**Okay everyone; this is the chapter before the climax. If you plan on reading it, I would really like you to answer to answer the next two questions.  
#1. Should Jack survive?  
#2. Do you want me to go on after the sinking of Titanic? I desperately need these opinions before I update again so PLEASE include your comments in a review.**  
  
Rose took a huge breath, allowing the air to seep into her chest and inflate her lungs. She hung onto Jack's hand for dear life as he stood momentarily, as if trying to escape fate. There was no escape.  
The last thing she remembered before the water hit was thinking - No, no, no please. Jack, save me! - and then there was nothing.  
The blackness surrounded her like death. She struggled weakly against the suction of the sea, pulling her down with the ship, but then she felt the cold.  
The cold. It pierced her skin like steel daggers and drove straight into her very soul. The ocean seeped into her gown and she could barely think, save for what Jack had said, the pain. Needles shot themselves into her brain and all of the sudden it was like her body stopped functioning. She was going insane with the freezing temperature, she wanted to die, she wanted to be killed . . .  
"Kick for the surface and keep kicking! Do not let go of my hand."  
Somehow, his words fought into her blaring mind and she remembered. Jack was here. They had to make it together.  
She was getting tired. The Atlantic was far stronger than she and, she thought as she painfully forced her eyes open against the salt, it had already taken Titanic. The hull of the liner was falling away. The last she saw of it was the ship's name in yellow lettering. It had once looked so proud, so majestic, so mighty, so true. Now all she was a defeated feat in the eyes of God. The almighty, vast Titanic was dead.  
Jack flailed beneath her, trying to swim to the surface. He was running out of air and his lungs threatened to explode. It was worse than being frozen through or having ice packed into his body. Everything hurt, like spears being plunged into his heart. It had been cold in the ship. He had known it was going to be cold in the actual sea. But this . . . this was insane. He couldn't focus his mind on Rose or the lifeboats. All he could think was, bitterly; So this is the end, Dawson. You thought you could save her. You thought you could live a life with someone you truly loved. But here you are, responsible for this glorious angel's death, in water so cold it must be frozen hell itself, your soul and brain and heart evaporating into solid sheets of frost. You really are a drowned gutter rat.  
No! Another section fought back. No! It isn't gonna happen this way! Not to you, not to Rose! God, not to Rose! You better battle to that surface!  
He kicked hard against the pull of black water. He managed to grab Rose's lifevest so that they would not be separated and he attempted to drag her to the world above. Her hair swirled in soaked curls around her head. He tried to motion to her to swim harder.  
All it took was that split second that he let go of her. A particularly strong draft caught him and, before he had a chance to react, he was yanked from Rose and deeper into the ocean.  
He tried to grab her hand, but she couldn't reach him. The last thing he saw was Rose feeling into the water, groping for him, terrified. Her mouth opened and she tried to scream, but all that came out was a stream of bubbles.  
And then he was sucked to deep too see her.  
His lungs were now ripping open. He hadn't had air for far too long. It petrified him when he tried to think of Rose lying still, cold, and alone in this icy hell. How could he let himself be separated from her? He was lost in guilt as he was dragged down and down . . .  
You have to make sure she survives. You have to make sure the women you love survives, Jack Dawson. What kind of filth are you, giving up on her like this? She braved everything to be with you, and you are quitting? Your parents would be ashamed. Do you love Rose DeWitt-Bukater or not?  
Suddenly he was throbbed in the voice of himself. How could he do this? He became so angry with himself that he wanted to stab himself thousands of times over. Rose didn't deserve him to act like this, especially not now. He did love her and he would love her till the end of time.  
As he thought this, the draft pulling him into the deep suddenly released its hold. He couldn't see the surface, but he immediately took the opportunity and kicked, harder than he ever had in his life. The awesome power of the cold was knocking him senseless, but he knew he had to fight to Rose.  
Finally, finally, he broke the sheet of water and gulped in freezing breaths of penetrating air, air that stung his face. Suddenly he was so cold he felt like he was on fire, the prickling and tearing feeling ripping through his skin.  
The new sight that greeted his eyes horrified him beyond words. So many hundreds of bodies were thrashing in the terrifyingly dark, empty horizon. The screams - he thought he would go mad from the screams. The Devil himself would have begged for mercy upon listening to the screams. He heard screams for family members, for salvation, for God's deliverance from the freezing hell. For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't think.  
And then it hit him. Was Rose joining in the screams? Was she in that much pain? Petrified for her, he fought bravely to swim. Everything melted together until the only thing that made sense was his love for Rose. That was the only thing he could cling to.  
He shoved things out of his way - deck chairs, an elaborately carved door, people - all the time shouting the name that he was afraid he would never hear again. "Rose? Rose!? ROSE!"  
He began to sink into numb despair when he realized how many people there truly were. Over a thousand, there had to be. If only he could find her! Just as his mouth opened again, a splash a few meters from him caused him to turn instinctively.  
Rose DeWitt-Bukater surfaced from the water, her skin sickly tints of white, blue, and purple, iced breath streaming from her ripe, now transparent lips. A man was trying to clamber on her to use as a flotation device. The pain and shrieks were obviously driving him mad.  
Jack was still with shock until he heard that sweet, angelic voice that sounded as though on bird's wings. "JACK!"  
He kicked harder than he had underwater, more desperate than he ever had been. "Rose," he murmured softly. In seconds, he was beside her, trying to pull her away from the person suffocating her. However, the man would not let go.  
Jack was freezing. His body was tangled in ice. But his blood had never boiled as hot as it did in this moment. His cold, raw hands balled quickly into fists. "Get off her!" He yelled, frantically. "GET OFF HER!"  
As quick as lightning, his hands slammed into the man's head three times without warning. He was shaken off and Jack's love managed to draw in a deep breath.  
"Jack," she murmured, making his name sound like a breath from heaven. He took her hand and pulled her closer to him.  
"Swim, Rose!" He exclaimed. "I need you to swim!"  
He hooked his fingertips around the straps of her lifebelt and began to drag her through the water. Every body part seemed frozen as he somehow managed to kick his way through the calm, now silent ruffles of water, shoving items out of the way as he did so. He fought against it all - the current, his strength, the bitter cold - and the death. He felt like he was waging a war against hell itself, and so desperately loosing. His movements became sluggish and slow as his body began to tire. No, he thought fiercely. I can not give up. I just can't do it! For Rose . . . for Rose . . .  
Rose's weight became heavier on his tingling arm. She was trying to swim but was growing exhausted and depending more on him. He heard her sharp intakes of painful breath behind him. "It's so cold," she gasped, her voice hardly more than a sigh of a moan across the blackness that seemed to stretch forever.  
He knew it was cold. He couldn't think anymore. Everything was becoming blurry. As he pushed a man out of his path, a man Jack swore was dead, he managed to shout back, "Keep swimmin'!" There was no answer except the harder kicks of his love. His love - what bitter, taunting words. He finally was in love. He had found not only the woman of his dreams, but his soulmate - strong, independent, a companion, kind, compassionate - and had slipped into the warmth of romance's grasp in just a few short days, becoming completely embedded in passion's palm mere hours ago.  
Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt-Bukater - it was fate, more than he could have wished for. In his mind's eye, he could still see the rich orange and purple light dazzling on those fiery red curls and shimmering in every fold of the blue fabric. He could see the turquoise eyes shining at him, sheen with love, and the golden tint of creamy, white skin. He could feel a spirit of liberty, a song of freedom, lifting them up higher and higher, past the sunset and into destiny, carrying them over melted waves and under soft lavender clouds -  
And now it was over. Love - what a cruel, cruel word. For finally, he had understood love at first sight, had experienced such a deep passion it terrified him. Finally, he had realized what life was about.  
But he would have to sacrifice his own life for another.  
They reached the door Jack and seen earlier. He was shocked that no one else had claimed it - then again, no one was thinking clearly. He was amazed he was still thinking clearly.  
"Here." He tried to yell so she could hear him over the screams, but his own voice was barely a groan. "Here. Get on it. Get on top."  
Rose heard him speak but didn't register what he was referring to until she felt it bump against her shoulder - a solid wood door that would raise them from the ocean. She had never imagined this kind of cold.  
Daddy, her heart whispered. Daddy, you can't even dream of the pain I'm in right now. If he wasn't here - I don't know what I'd do. I love him, Daddy. I love him.  
She felt Jack's arms scoop up her body to lift her onto the block. For a moment, she just relaxed there, unwilling to leave his firm, warm, and reassuring embrace. Everything about him was so strong and perfect . . . how could she have said those hurtful things in the gymnasium? How could she have ever entertained Cal instead of Jack? How?  
She didn't have the strength for regrets. Desperate to hear his heartbeat, she laid her head against his chest. The comforting beat was growing slow now. She trembled harder, and not just from the cold.  
"C'mon, Rose." His voice floated to her, panicking to get her out of the sea. "Get on."  
Reluctantly she began to haul herself up onto the door. Her energy was dwindling and it was all she could do to kick herself out of the mighty Atlantic. She could feel his broad hands guiding her, the bitter frost, and the pain. Some said that in freezing temperatures you go numb. Rose knew otherwise. Every part of her body screamed in hopeless, dark pain.  
Finally she collapsed, spent, onto the damp surface. Small black waves rolled over her body and then washed out the other side until she was balanced.  
It was unbearably, unimaginably, unthinkably cold. The icy air breezed over her already frozen body. Her cheeks turned transparent and she began to shiver madly, hardly able to concentrate.  
She felt weight being pulled next to her. Jack.  
Without warning the door tipped to her left. She was again thrown into the ocean. A terrified, wild scream escaped her lips. Not the water again, God, not the water . . .  
"Stay on, stay on Rose," Jack chattered. "Stay on."  
"Jack!" She gasped. He lifted her again until she lay sprawled on the door. There was no room for him. With a sigh, he accepted the unacceptable. If there was no room, he would sacrifice everything, everything, for Rose. It was his fault she was here in the first place and he loved her so, so much.  
It didn't bother him, really, that he wasn't going to see another sunrise. Maybe he had lived his purpose. Or maybe . . . maybe this was his purpose, to save Rose DeWitt-Bukater from Society, Titanic, and the cold. The only thing that he was worried about was Rose. Of course she was strong enough to survive alone, but he wouldn't be able to bear the thought of her being bitter her whole life. She had so much to offer the world - her fire, her inner beauty, her passion. She was a beautiful dove in a cage, and finally, finally, she was free.  
It hit him all of the sudden. It was like a rock had slammed into him and knocked some sense into his brain. He couldn't give up on her. He just couldn't! He was in love with her, and he needed to be there to see her fly.  
He leaned in closer to her, trying to give her the last of the heat radiating off his body. "Jack," she murmured again. She held onto one of his hands with all her might, clenching and unclenching her fist, stroking the smooth metal of the broken handcuffs. He pressed his forehead against her own, feeling the frozen shimmer of silver that was her sweet breath blow around his skin. She was shaking so hard that it was all he could do to make himself make eye contact with her. Those pools of green and blue seemed like cubes of ice reflecting in the black of the night.  
He caressed her fingers, knowing it was doing nothing to warm her but at the same time needing to feel her. "It'll be alright now," he managed, his voice trembling with cold. He could see relief and fear merging as one in her face. "It'll be alright now." 


	16. Never Let Go

**One more chapter and we're there. Reviews, please! Us authors live off of them, right?**  
  
A whistle pierced the screams and rang in Rose's ears. She would never forget the screams. They would haunt her beyond eternity, beyond forever. They filled her body with sorrow and regret.  
She turned, shaking, to see an officer hanging for life onto a deck chair. The words R.M.S. Titanic were painted in red onto the wood.  
The man blew again. "Return . . . the boats . . .!" She allowed the lonely sound of the whistle to beat into her heart. The lifeboats . . . where were they? She could remember Mr. Andrew's words -  
About half actually. Rose, you miss nothing, do you?  
"The boats are comin' back for us, Rose," Jack whispered near her, his hands shaking around her own. She turned her head to look at him and saw, horrified, that strands of ice were glistening in his hair. His skin was changing from white to blue. She tried to scream, but no sound was admitted from her lips.  
"Hang on just a little bit longer," he continued, gulping to warm his throat enough to speak. "They . . . they had t . . . to row away for the suction but now they'll be . . . comin' back."  
He tried to smile but there was nothing to smile about. He wasn't even sure that the boats were coming back. Even if they had rowed away just for the suction, he found it hard to believe they would throw themselves into at least a thousand victims. He would hate to be in the boats - oh God, how he would hate it. Having to choose who died and who survived . . . what human had the right to do that?  
He tried to keep himself thinking, keep himself awake. Rose, he yelled to himself. Think about Rose! He could feel her trembling in his grip and see the terror and pain shining like candles in her eyes. How could he have done this to her? The guilt he was sure Thomas Andrews had felt was weighing on his heart like the world thrust upon his soul. If anyone deserved this, damn it, anyone, it was him.  
Everything was his fault. Rose, Fabrizio, Tommy . . . the cold was nothing compared to the hurt he felt now. It was hard to believe that one week ago he hadn't known Rose, had been sleeping under a bridge barely living from one day to the next. What a sorry excuse for a being he had been.  
He had been missing something. Jack Dawson, the free and contented man everyone else saw, had been missing something. Maybe it was the weight of his parents' death. Maybe it was the absence of love in his life. Maybe it was the heartbreak of leaving his hometown and knowing he would never see it again. The strange thing was, he hadn't known of the lost piece in his heart until just last night. He had been happy before, with his best friend beside him, the world ahead and behind, and a giantess of the sea beneath his feet. But - Jesus - how could he have possibly known what he would feel?  
Jack had been missing Rose DeWitt-Bukater's smile. He had been waiting twenty years to see her laugh.  
It all felt now like a distant memory, one he truly didn't have the strength to grab back. The colors and faces were blurring, the music was fading, and the scent was ebbing away. The only thing that remained focused and bright was Rose, Rose clapping and smiling, dancing and laughing. His Rose.  
She was still the same beautiful woman, still had that fire in her. But she was dying. She lay sprawled on the door as if she had no energy to fix herself into a more comfortable position.  
It just wasn't right! For God's sake, she was only seventeen! She had just broken from Society, had glanced at the beauty of the world she had been hidden from her whole life, and had found, in him, someone who wouldn't leave her even if his life depended on it.  
With a sigh, she dropped her head on his hand, tracing the outlines of his bones with her fingertips. He turned abruptly to look at her. Damn it. She looked so exhausted. He was right. She was dying. He couldn't let her die. He couldn't. A thousand deaths of his were not worth one of hers.  
Rose was tired. All she wanted to do was sleep. Maybe the pain and freezing water would go away. The screams were growing softer now. Had everyone else fallen asleep? Surely, then, she could too.  
But the only thing that greeted her closed eyes was horrific nightmares beyond her wildest dreams. Visions of Titanic pointing to the sky, dark and black and evil, clouded her already confused mind. She could feel no emotions but every emotion at once. Jack's skin was ice cold but she couldn't remove it from her face. It seemed the last preserved relic of a life once lived - a life full of the love she had only read in storybooks. She could see the pages now. There was always a beautiful princess, living a contented life in a beautiful castle but longing for someone to share her heart with. And then a prince came, an amazingly handsome prince, who somehow saved the princess' life and fell deeply and forever in love with his girl, riding off into some magical sunset to a distant kingdom . . .  
She fought an evil desire to laugh as she thought of her relationship with Jack. She had been a beautiful, wealthy young maiden, trapped and seemingly content in a life only the privileged lived. And slowly, ever so slowly, her handsome, adoring prince had saved her from dying in what everyone else would have called perfection. They too had fallen in love by fate and only fate, for the better or worse. How hard she had fought it for a whole day, trying unsuccessfully to banish him from her mind. But when he cleared, there was only a desperate passion to be with him again . . .  
She sighed. Somehow, they had gone from the magical sunset to the clutches of death. Shivering, she felt the painful rush of water over her feet again. It jerked her back to reality. The people hadn't fallen asleep - they were dead. The Titanic had sunk and all she had left was Jack Dawson.  
"It's getting quiet," she managed to murmur, noticing he wasn't moving. She had to keep him awake. How could she live without him? She had been searching for him before she had met him, and how could she possibly go on after she had found him?  
He didn't reply to the depressing statement but attempted a stab at a more lighthearted conversation. "I don't know 'bout you but . . . I intend t . . . to write a . . . a strongly worded letter to the . . . White Star Line about . . . all this." Again, he tried to grin, but he couldn't anymore. His mouth seemed frozen. He blew frozen breaths on frozen hands, trying to warm not just his frozen body but his frozen heart.  
Rose lay there, silent, and she suddenly realized something. They were going to die. There was no way they could both live through this long, horrible night.  
As a little girl, she had always expected to be terrified of death when it came. It only made sense, now, that she was shocked to find she wasn't. Her life with her mother and Cal had been worse than hell could possibly be. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see her father.  
Rose, he whispered. Rose . . .  
How she had loved him.  
She tried to weigh in her mind how it would be to be forever hushed in the silence of the past while the rest of the world moved in. To lie in peace for an eternity at the bottom of the North Atlantic, to be blanketed by a tragedy that no one could understand, in the warm and comforting arms of a person who would never leave her. Maybe she would go back, back to Titanic, humbled just to be in the very presence of bravery like Earth had never seen - Thomas Andrews, Captain Smith, the band, Fabrizio, Tommy, Cora and her father, and Jack . . . oh Jack . . .  
He had to know. She had to make sure he knew. Just twelve hours ago she had thought she would never see him again, but right now she would rather go with the devil than die without him knowing the truth. After everything she had said in the gymnasium, on deck . . .  
If he didn't know, she would give up and die right here.  
It was a hard thing for her to say. She had said the same thing about Cal, and she had thought that she would never say those three words with any true meaning whatsoever. She had never dwelled on the saying for more than a few moments, but now it made her pause.  
It was an unbelievably important thing to her, to realize that she would die without him and would die with him all in one night. Her throat was iced and scratched. For a second she thought she wouldn't be able to say it, but finally it poured out.  
"I love you, Jack."  
Jack looked at her in amazement. No matter how much he had tried to believe it, he had never really grasped the idea till now. She loved him.  
  
The joy of the instant was washed away as he realized something. It had taken all of her heart to say those words. For some reason, she thought it necessary that he know now, tonight, in the icy hell that they were trapped in. She was watching him for a response, but her eyelids were ever-so-softly closing.  
She was saying her goodbyes. She . . . was . . . saying . . . her . . . goodbyes . . .  
It didn't register with him for a split second. When it did, hate filled him like never before. Not at her, oh God, no, not at her. Not at God Himself, because He was never responsible for anything evil.  
He was feeling hate towards himself. Towards himself for putting her through this, for falling in love with her tonight of all nights, for not making her stay in a lifeboat, for feeling this way at all . . .  
And then he just wanted out. He wanted to get her out and to get out, to be free from these horrible waters that were sucking the life out of Rose and him. He had never envisioned his end to be this way and he couldn't stand the guilt and pain of it being hers'.  
"Don't . . . you do that." The powerful statement came out as a fierce whisper, all he could muster right now. It opened him to how hopeless the situation was. He became more desperate. "Don't you say your goodbyes. Not yet . . . do you understand me?"  
Rose shivered inside. She hadn't wanted him to take it that way, but she realized how truthful he was. She was giving up. Rose DeWitt-Bukater, the fiery redhead on her way to America, was giving up.  
"I'm so cold," she murmured, tears finding their way into her voice. She was so cold . . . she had never been this cold. Her body was freezing and it hurt so - so damn much. She felt like she was being tortured, like the sea was being cruel and evil just to torment her. And with that thought, she lost hope. It just evaporated, leaving her heart and soul just as frozen as her skin. A tear traced its way down her smooth cheek and embedded itself on Jack's strong hands, the hands of an artist.  
His heart broke. She sounded like she was in so much pain, pain he hadn't been able to imagine till now. He had sworn to himself earlier today, while they were racing from Thomas Andrews to boat deck, that he would protect her and never let anything hurt her. But he had failed.  
His heart had broken so many times tonight that now it was just a pile of shattered glass, barely thudding life anymore. He wanted to spare her from feeling this, at least. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to release faith in his own survival. He knew that he wouldn't see Rose break free. But she has so much to offer the world, he thought again. That fire and that intelligence, that stubbornness that he loved so much.  
"Listen Rose," he mumbled, his voice growing softer with the chattering. She shifted her gaze to look at him expectantly. This was going to be hard for him to say, but Jesus, she had to live. No matter if he did or not, she had to live.  
"You're gonna get out of here," he went on, finally managing a small grin, his eyes melting into hers. "You're gonna . . . go on," he whispered. ". . . and you're gonna make . . . make lots of babies . . . and you're gonna watch 'em grow . . ."  
Rose didn't understand him. Of course, if they lived, they were going to go on. She could picture having his children - they would have beautiful blue eyes and perfect gold-blonde hair, his freedom, his personality, and maybe her perseverance.  
She noticed his mouth struggling to open. He wasn't finished yet.  
"You're gonna die an old . . . old lady . . . warm in her bed. Not here . . . not this night. Not like this . . . Do you understand me?" Was she imagining, or could she see tears in his eyes? His voice was full of an intense determination that she had never heard before.  
A sudden pang of pain abruptly took away her concentration. She was only seventeen. Should it really hurt this much?  
"I can't . . . feel my . . . body," she groaned, her Philadelphian accent choking with surrender. Wait Rose! Jack tried to say. Instead, he could only think it. Don't go yet! Not . . . yet . . .  
His expression turned to that of a frantic need to tell her something. Rose turned, a feeling of ice stabbing in her neck. He pulled himself closer to her and she realized, aghast, that there were tears there, mixing with the blue of his face.  
"W . . . winning that ticket, Rose, was the best thing that ever happened to me. It brought me to you." He smiled hesitantly. "And I'm thankful for that, Rose. I . . . I'm thankful." She managed to smile back and he could feel her delicate bones shivering beneath her creamy skin. If he had never met her his life wouldn't be worth anything. He would rather die knowing her today than live for eternity alone.  
He heaved himself even nearer to her. Why did this have to happen tonight? Why did he have to do this to her? He had such a passion for her and everything that she believed in that he wished he could change his mind and let her float away with him. He could picture them both now - his arms wrapped tightly around her warm and beautiful body, his lips moving hungrily against her own, drifting downwards and downwards to the place where there love had been born - Titanic.  
Then he realized how selfish he was being.  
"I love you, Jack . . ."  
"To the stars . . ."  
"Put your hands on me, Jack . . ."  
"I'm flying!"  
"Not without you . . ."  
"You jump, I jump, right?"  
"I didn't. I just realized I already knew . . ."  
"Wearing only this . . ."  
He physically grimaced at the thought of taking her away. The world needed her so much more. She was so wonderful that it ripped away his breath. It was a lover's goodbye that he was about to give.  
Ma, he silently prayed, Pa - the cold is so bad here you can't even begin to comprehend. I've never been this cold. I'm in so much pain and I just want it to end - please, please spare me . . . make it end . . .  
This girl right here, see her? I love her. She is everything that today needs. She crossed that boundary for me - the boundary of social divide - and she crossed it only with love. I can't take her with me, I just can't. It's like when you died - I wanted to die too, so, so bad, but if I had I would never have met Rose. I can't deprive her of something amazing and beautiful that could happen.  
It tears me up to see her like this. She's real and there and incredible but now she's got ice woven in her shocking red curls, which have lost their color and turned dull. Her skin looks ghastly and her eyes look empty. The sea is robbing the life out of her. The freedom she so recently found.  
I'm tired, Ma and Pa. I can't go on like this. It hurts so, so, so much. I would rather be shot a thousand times then have to be here. I can't think straight anymore. I'm getting confused. My body isn't working right. I can't control myself. And to top it all off, I gotta leave her. She finally trusted me and now I've gotta leave her. I feel so guilty that I can barely speak but I need to know, I just need to have her word . . .  
He closed his eyes for a brief minute until the threat of tears had passed. There had to be a reason there was only room on the door for one.  
  
That night that he had saved Rose from committing suicide he had been lying on a bench and staring into the glittering sky. He had been trying so hard to visualize life back again in Chippewa Falls, without his parents. For some reason he hadn't been able to, and maybe this was why. Maybe he wasn't supposed to go home.  
He felt like a helpless child cowering from a murderer. He wasn't afraid of death. At the age of twenty he had already seen so many people die that he knew sometimes it was the only way to let the others around you live on. No, what he was afraid of was for Rose. He didn't have to strength to stay and make sure she got in a lifeboat. She wouldn't want to go on without him - what else did she have? She was so tender and new to the life he lived, but her mother had probably disowned her and her fiancée was a bastard in gentlemen's clothing, who beat her, kicked her, spat on her, and had most likely tried to rape her.  
He was scared that she would just give up once he died and lie there, in the pain and cold alone, like a porcelain doll discarded into the rain. Would she think he had abandoned her?  
He would never do that. He loved her. It was for that reason that he was doing this.  
"You . . . you must . . . you must do me this one honor . . ." He chattered. Her eyes got large and round, afraid and in disbelief. Her grip on his hands tightened and he could tell that she was about to say 'No' just by the way she was gazing at him.  
"You must promise me . . ." he rushed on, as strong as he could be, his face echoing his fierce will for her survival, ". . . that you'll survive."  
Rose began to weep, her throat making it impossible for her to give anything other than great, gasping sobs. What was he doing? What was he saying? Why was he making her promise? How could he possibly think that she could live without him?  
"That you won't . . . give up . . ." He murmured, quietly as the wind rushing over the empty ocean. She began to cry harder, tears staining her face, some freezing on her cheeks and others snaking onto his hand.  
In the desolate, empty, and lonely North Atlantic, she wept. Everything was so black now and she knew why. The boats would not come back. Jack was dying.  
In her mind she cursed God for making her feel this way. Jack was Rose and Rose was Jack. She couldn't live alone, couldn't make it without her Jack Dawson by her side. She was not that strong. She was surrounded by a sea of utter and complete misery and death. And she had no will to live.  
". . . no matter what happens . . . no matter how - hopeless . . ." Jack's expression was suddenly painted with pain as his beautiful face contorted with the effort of speaking to her.  
He took a ragged breath and sighed, the moan swirling through the freezing air like a death march. She couldn't stand to see him like this. Why was love not enough? How could her love not be enough? She couldn't love him anymore than she already did and she couldn't live without him loving her back.  
"Promise me, now Rose," he rumbled, his voice gaining strength from his anxiety to know she would survive, ". . . and never let go of that . . . promise."  
Everything was lost to Rose in that instant. The Titanic, which had been just a few mere hours ago floating like a grand palace, crowning the foaming waves, was now lying miles beneath her, in a place so cold and dark she guessed it could be hell itself. Her foundation had crumbled when she had been forced to watch her fellow humans die like swatted insects - tumbling and screaming and shrieking and praying. The blood that swirled in the water was not invisible to her - streaks of red surrounded a few of the bodies that she could see. So many, many people were in her view - some still feebly groaning, a soft cry every once and a while filling the air like ghosts. They stilled their frantic paddling and - Rose saw with horror - did not move again. She was still terrified and she was in so, so much pain. It was this blackness, this pain, this certain death, this blood, and this lack of love that split into her mind and tore out her spirit, soul, and heart. She felt empty, useless, not worthy to live. It was a dark hour. It wasn't 1912 anymore; there was no time, no world, no life, no joy. Only hurt and suffering coated her body.  
But through it all, he was still here. He had not left her. He had comforted her in her times of despair and tried to save her and now . . . Jack Dawson was giving her the ultimate sacrifice.  
Sacrifice. What a frightening, dreadful word.  
Everything she saw was in shades of blue, black, and grey. She felt so . . . lifeless. Was that the right word?  
Helplessly, desperately, she turned back to Jack. He wouldn't really make her promise, would he? He knew that she couldn't go on like this, alone. Didn't he?  
She hated to see him like this. His eyes were filled with uneasiness that shown in their amazing, beautiful, enchanting, shimmering pools of blue. She became lost in him, lost like she always was, hopelessly drowning in the love that had already claimed her heart and threatened her life. The anguish in those eyes shocked her - the guilt, the hurt, the sadness, the pain. She softly allowed her eyelids to close. How could she bear to let him go on like he was now? Titanic sinking wasn't his fault. It was not Jack Dawson's fault that she was so, so cold, that her soul was being sucked from her, that she couldn't think, could barely breathe, hell, she wasn't sure she even wanted to breathe. It was not his fault. He had saved her so many times - how could he not see that? How could she let him not see that?  
And it was in that moment that she gave in. She would do anything - anything - to wipe that horrible look from his eyes. She wanted those orbs to sparkle their soft, free blue; twinkle with barely sustained laughter; gaze upon her like a lovestruck fool that had just woken from a trance. She wanted him to be her Jack again.  
Besides, it couldn't really happen, could it? Nature was not that cruel. It would not give her love and snatch it away from her like that. They would both live or they would both die. She didn't have a choice in the matter. But just to make him feel free - maybe for the last time - she owed it to humanity, it seemed, to give the world a grain back of the true man before her.  
So, that was how it happened that she spoke the most barricading words she had ever spoken, chaining her to a promise she didn't even understand.  
". . . I promise."  
Those eyes that had made a decision for her drove into the last bit of heart she had left and seemed to be searching for something, anything, to convince him that she meant her word. He couldn't control his emotions, but they were spiraling insanely out of control. Trust me. Trust. She trusts me.  
". . . Never . . . let go," he almost gasped, painfully. Pain. That was another thing. The pain was shooting straight through him, burning and freezing and confusing and terrifying all at once. He'd do anything to spare Rose from this kind of pain.  
He didn't want to do this to her. He loved her, he had allowed her to lean on him, believe in him. He had instilled thoughts of a blissful future in both of their minds.  
"No, we'll do it. We'll drink cheap beer; we'll ride the rollercoaster until we throw up . . . and after that we'll ride horses on the beach, right in the surf. Now, you'll have to do it like a real cowboy. None of that - sidesaddle - stuff."  
Now it was all gone. Everything - everything - was gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Just because of one night, one iceberg, their lives had been altered in mere moments.  
Now, as if to awaken him to ever present love and misery, she spoke with that voice that lifted him and chilled him. It was glazed with cold and hurt, bright with love and triumph, sad with death and parting.  
"I'll never let go, Jack . . . I'll never let go . . ."  
He squeezed her hand harder. The tears began to slip down those pale, pale cheeks again, freezing on her frozen skin. The whiteness and fragileness of her made her look, even in the midst of all this tragedy, like an angel. A beautiful angel that he was afraid to loose lest she fly away.  
Rose continued to sob, her almost silent, grief-filled moans echoing in her head. She felt so lost now, so, so lost. He smiled at her, tried to smile away the pain and suffering but knew he couldn't. Before his grin vanished in the depressing mold of his face, she felt a spark of life in him burn.  
He kissed her hand, not being able to muster the strength to kiss her face. His lips brushed against her knuckles, icy cold but transmitting the fiery heat that had been there only hours before.  
She looked at him, so sad that she couldn't speak anymore. The lonely vastness of the black North Atlantic, the horror of the dead around them, and the creaking, groaning wreck of a queen lying forever still in a freezing, murky grave spoke for her. There was nothing to do anymore but pray.  
He lowered his head and blew hard, trying to warm himself. It was the only way to survive. On his glance, she pressed her forehead against his own, and they trembled and shivered so much that their bodies rocked back and forth, swaying in the ever-changing pain that they knew would never melt away.  
She truly is like a rose, Jack thought blandly, confused, like a beautiful, delicate flower that just got buried in frost and will never be warm again. 


	17. I Promise

**OK, everyone. This is it. Sorry it took FOREVER, but these are hard times to write about. Just do me one favor before you read. Prep yourself with Rose's mind, okay? Feel her hopelessness, her confusion, her pain, the cold . . . And when you're all done, REVIEW, PLEASE!**  
  
Rose felt so empty that it was all she could do to even think. And then it all hit her again - Titanic, water flooding shiny hallways, the screams. The screams - they had all died out now. It was so quiet.  
She felt like she was on the brink of insanity. It was an awful feeling - she could not control herself or her thoughts for a moment. Suddenly she was drowning in blackness, being smothered by hate and regret, covered with something she didn't have the power to understand. All she could see was emptiness. I must be losing consciousness, Rose thought, terrified. Maybe that was the last thing I will ever see - the Atlantic. But I . . . I can't . . .  
If she was trapped in herself, she could get herself out. It was a fight against her deepest fears and horrors - the death she had seen. Jack, oh Jack, I'm so afraid, I'm so weak, I'm dying . . . Where are you? I need you. You said you would never leave me . . . you made love to me . . . you kissed me with such sweetness . . . where are you when I need you? Please take me away, whisk me to the horizon like you promised . . . take me to the rollercoaster and the surf. That's where I want to be, in the warm surf with you. Right in the surf.  
Slowly, her view began to ebb back into her eyes, eyes reflecting blue-green with pain, with the iceberg. She wasn't strong enough anymore. Jack's own hand was grasped within her palms. For some reason, his icy fingers had stopped moving. He must be so tired. I am too. I am too. He'll wake up when the boat comes. I just got to wait till the boat comes.  
With sympathetic tenderness, she turned to gaze at him and stroked his knuckles. He looked so cold, as cold as she was. In the blackness she could see the purpling tints of his face and shivered. No. He's fine. He's just fine. I can't think like that. He's just hurting inside, like me. He's a strong eagle dipping down, and I'm a wilting rose, but we'll be fine because we're together. Nothing can harm us while we're together.  
Her curls were dull and colorless, now strung with fine strands of solid ice. When she moved, a rustling, clunking sound of her now frozen hair against wood greeted her.  
It'll be alright now. It'll . . . be alright now.  
With a small gasp of pain, she shifted on her back, still clutching Jack's hand. She felt stabbed with daggers and, if she imagined hard enough, could see her blood foaming in the water around her. She had had so many opportunities to get in a lifeboat but she couldn't make herself regret being right here, right here with him . . .  
It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. It was pain beyond imaginable, torture shrieking its way out of every centimeter of her body, breath freezing in silvery gasps around her. The anguish ripped through her as easily as a bullet and pounded every organ that still functioned within her. The agony was unbearable, the suffering was unexplainable. Yet, through it all, she had never been more whole in her existence.  
She could see scenes of her past life like looking through a blurry window, smeared pictures of galas and jewels, velvet and satin, badly-tuned sounds of fake, high laughter, gasping figures in tightly wound corsets, diamond rings and false bank papers. It was all some lie, some scam to drain her of everything she had and leave her lying, panting, on the cold floor of death. She had been so close, so empty, that she hadn't recognized Jack for what he was at first. And now she couldn't get enough of him.  
A small, tender, crazy smile lit her lips, brought on by the insanity of her pain. She couldn't think straight anymore. Her mind wasn't allowing her to comprehend anything, so she let go. Slowly, she felt the last of her sense ebb away into the complete, confused yet clear, pit of nothing.  
It was short bliss, to not feel anything. To not have to feel the ice tearing through what had been her once melting body, to not have to worry about Jack floating motionless beside her, to not have tears freezing in her eyes when she saw all of the passengers of Titanic in the sea.  
Mindlessly, she heard the words to a song that was vaguely familiar -  
"Come Josephine . . . my flying machine . . ."  
That's . . . that's Jack's song. That's our song. Why . . . why is someone singing Jack's song?  
". . . and it's up she goes . . ."  
His song . . . does he want me to come with him? I'll go anywhere! Where . . . is he? Why do I hear his song? Who's singing it?  
". . . up she goes . . ."  
She could barely hear herself take a ragged, rasping breath, and even then she wasn't sure it was her. She was still so confused about why such a soft, weak voice would be singing "Come Josephine". Her round, blue and white lips opened suddenly, but immediately closed. She looked up. What was above her? It was still so dark . . .  
The skies were so deep, deep black - they echoed about the deepness of the past and the length of the future. But through it all they showed no way of getting out of the present. There were stars, so many, many stars, like God had taken a handful of sparkling diamonds and scattered them against a velvet black canvas. She could see milky dust sprinkled in long arms across the stars, tinting the sky dark grey in some areas. Was that a shooting star? She had to make a wish . . .  
I wish that I were out of this pain and in Jack's arms again . . . I wish Titanic was still slicing through the waves . . . I wish Cora was safe and ruddy-cheeked as always . . . I wish Jack's friend Fabrizio was dancing with his lady friend Helga . . . I wish Tommy was arm wrestling in the general room . . . just let the music lift my feet off the floor and my heart off the ground . . .  
She took another rasp and suddenly felt like a helpless dying butterfly, lying still on the floor of a glass jar. It was useless. The nearest land was hundreds if not thousands of miles away, the boats were gone, and Jack hadn't moved yet. It was best to let him sleep. Maybe when he woke it would be warm again . . .  
"To the stars . . ."  
Would we really be safe in the stars, dancing in the milky light, clinging to each other? Would they keep us locked away from all this pain and regret forever?  
She heard something. It sounded strange, more like an unformed blur than words. It was coming from her right. Slowly, her throbbing mind woke again from its deadly sleep.  
". . . Hello . . .!"  
What? It was . . . someone was talking . . . there was someone alive other than herself and Jack in this goddamn Atlantic Ocean, miles deep and so icy and empty -  
". . . Hello . . .?! . . . Can anyone hear me . . .?!"  
A . . . but no . . . it couldn't be . . .  
Gradually, she turned her head to look on her side. Her breath caught in her throat and almost all her strength was sucked away in that one, miniscule movement. It became silent and then buzzing and then fuzzy . . . her eyes and ears were not wholly working. Her hope burned like a spark within her soul and for just a moment she felt herself returning, ever-so-slightly. Maybe it really would be alright; maybe Jack and she could start a new life, truly, and head to the horizon . . .  
A bright, painful glare from the beam of a flashlight bored into her blue-green eyes and sent a tremoring, aching feeling all over her face. The dazzle shocked her pupils and she squinted through the jet of light at the figures on the other side. Was it really a boat?  
It was. She could make out the rounded shape and a blurry, yet tall man scanning his lamp across the ocean. It fell on so many people . . . they'd be fine, wouldn't they? They couldn't all be . . . all be . . .  
All that mattered right now was that she woke Jack and they climbed into a boat. She felt the pang of longing just for a blanket, for sleep, for a chance to wipe these frozen tears off her iced face.  
But she knew, somehow, she would never recover.  
Still in disbelief and numbing pain, she tried to pick herself up enough to turn to Jack. In the first attempt, she failed, and her lack of strength dropped her back to the board. She could feel the cold wood stinging against her chest and she gasped again, used to much colder but still shocked at hurting so much.  
The blackness being pierced by that one beam, the silence, the cold . . . it was confusing her and she drew in a ragged breath. Get Jack, she thought blandly. I have to wake him. We're going to make it.  
She finally faced him and opened her mouth, fully prepared to get his attention, when, terrified, she froze.  
He looked . . . oh God, he didn't look like her Jack anymore. Those blue eyes that had inspired her for life and beyond, had met hers with such reassurance while they were making love, had soothed her soul throughout the horrors that the iceberg unleashed, those enchanting blue eyes were shut behind tightly drawn eyelids that looked sore and were raw red.  
Shivering, she brushed her fingers more firmly against his skin - his skin that was so, so cold and glowed a sickly white from the flashlight. The color was more transparent . . . but looked so empty. His lips were pale, pale purple and did not move, did not quiver, did not open. Where those the same throbbing, hot lips that had been pressed to her own with such ardor, such passion?  
His shirt stuck limply to his chest and gleamed with patches of frozen sea. She could remember being pressed to it and grasping folds of fabric in her palms, taking in his simple charcoal and sandalwood scent.  
With fresh horror, her eyes moved up to his hair, to his blonde locks. She had loved to finger their solid structure and their damp texture in the car. Her heart had melted into a puddle when it hung boyishly in his face. She could remember him sweeping it out of his face in the orangeish glow of the drawing. But now each strand was woven with chips of blue ice and seemed frozen to his scalp.  
Another ring of ice separated his nose and lip. His neck did not move as if with a pulse and he did not breathe. She could remember his heart-tearing grin and buckled inside. Jack, Jack, open your eyes! Smile at me, please . . . I can't live without your smiles. Hold me, tell me it will be alright . . .  
" . . . Hello . . . !?"  
The wavering voice of the man in the boat floated to her, sounding strange with different sound waves. The lifeboat was leaving. She couldn't worry about Jack's appearance now. If they got in that boat, he would be swathed in blankets and they would finally be warm . . .  
"Jack!" She whispered, not having the energy to raise her voice. She grasped his cold, icy hand in her own and weakly shook it, rubbing the cuff between her fingers and hearing the metal clang on wood.  
A light smile slipped into her expression as she watched him. Had he just stirred? He wouldn't be able to believe that they were finally going to get out of this freezing, dark, deep hell, that they might actually be warm again . . .  
"Jack, there's a boat!" Her whisper finally rose to a murmur and she lounged silently in those words. There's a boat . . . there is a boat . . . a boat is here . . . we can leave, Jack, we can leave . . . we can leave this damned place and all the victims of Titanic and have a life together -  
". . . Can anyone hear me . . .!?"  
Her focus was again drawn back to the present. She couldn't move her lower body because it was frozen through, so she struggled to turn back to her love. Her love . . . they fit together, and it was maybe for that reason she had felt so misshapen before. A hideous ugly beast wrapped in an angel's body had been transformed to a pure, beautiful rose clothed in spring.  
And she had him to think for that.  
Her smile widened as she tapped his hand more excitedly, trying to ignore the stabs of pain spreading fire across her. The cold of the metal brushed roughly against her finger. She couldn't stand seeing him like this. Soon, very soon, the cuffs imprisoning him would be off. His frozen hands would be warm and solid again - they would be caressing her, holding her, steadying her, being her.  
". . . Jack!"  
With growing discomfort, she watched him steadily, praying for some sign - any sign - that he had heard her. But those warm, flowing eyes did not open, that perfectly shaped mouth did not move, his muscular, soft chest did not rise. Delicate, light water - freezing murderous water - rolled gently against his body, sending ripples around the board. Everything was so quiet - so incredibly deathly quiet. She knew something was wrong and a feeling worse than the cold pierced her already sliced heart. The emotion was tangible and unbearable and it was all Rose could do to take a rugged breath.  
"Jack!" Her murmur turned into a desperate, frightened whisper, and she shook his hand harder, hearing the clanging ringing in her muffled ears. A lone breeze swept over her back and she jumped inside, feeling it like a presence leaving her. The grin was replaced by an anxious, pained, pleading frown, and she searched him harder.  
She ran her fingers along his veins in his wrists, trying desperately to feel a pulse. Wait . . . was that it? That pounding?  
Then she realized, with a glaze of horror, that it was only her own shivering.  
She knew. Before she spoke the next words, she knew. Her voice choked in sobs and it was all she could do to open her mouth.  
"There's a boat, Jack! There's a boat!" She moaned. Her voice cracked with disbelief. "Jack . . ."  
Then the tears were falling like they had never fell, drowning her in their hopelessness. Everything fazed out of color and she dropped, lifeless, onto the door, trying to bury her face in his hand, trying to catch the reassuring feeling of his skin.  
No, no it was impossible . . . It couldn't happen. I'm a survivor, alright? Don't worry about me. Hadn't he said those words?  
An emotion thousands of times worse than anything she had ever felt in her life was filling her lungs, controlling her mind. His face, his beautiful face, lay in front of her. He did not move.  
And just like that she forgot everything. Titanic did not exist. Cal and her mother faded from view. She couldn't remember the devastation around her. She could not feel the cold. All she could feel was grief and misery screaming inside of her, out of control like a raging river breaking down a dam.  
She looked so weary. The curly tendrils of hair had no color and were frozen to the wood. She shook with unbearable hurt. Her skin was splotched.  
She could feel nothing and everything at one time. She was so numb . . . she was alone. The reality of the statement swept through her soul and left her in denial and breathless. He felt real - the solidness of his bones beneath her own, the soft roughness of his fingertips. But there was no heart pounding fiercely beneath longing skin, no free artist's spirit that had completely seduced her and whisked away her pain. Now it was all back, weighing like a stone in the silence of the evil she was going through.  
Maybe it would hurt less if she thought it was a dream. If it was a dream. If she could just open her eyes and wake in a cold sweat, like she had so many other times, still safe in the bed in her stateroom, not even knowing who Jack Dawson was.  
But it wouldn't be love.  
Maybe it would be easier if she just ignored the memories of his hands, so strong and gentle, so careful and afraid to touch her like she was a fragile butterfly that he was afraid to harm. If she could just forget the feeling of flying to the horizon in the sunset with him holding her, then his lips coming down and meeting hers in heaven and beyond, if she couldn't remember the disbelief and torture she felt when she was in a lifeboat, leaving him, and the relief washing through her when she threw herself back against his body.  
But it wouldn't be love.  
She held his hand to her, not feeling or caring about the cold, sobbing so hard she knew her ribs would break. Crystal tears swam down her smooth, pale cheeks and dropped into the sea, mixing salt with salt, taking more of her pain, demanding more of her suffering. If she just quit feeling, then she could deny the ocean that pleasure.  
But it wouldn't be love.  
If there was one thing that she knew, she loved Jack Dawson. She tried to remember her life without him, before that passion and ardor that had taken over anything and taken away everything. Shaking, she realized that she could only think of him, only recall things he had said, things they had shared.  
  
"I'm gonna dance with her now . . . Come on. Come with me."  
"No . . . Jack . . . I can't do this."  
"We're gonna have to get a little bit closer, like this . . ."  
"And all the while I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up!"  
"Do you love him?"  
"Pardon me?"  
"Do you love him . . .?"  
"So what are you, an artist or something? Well, these are rather good . . ."  
"Do you trust me?"  
"I trust you."  
"Hello Jack. I changed my mind . . ."  
"Come Josephine, my flying machine going up she goes, up she goes . . ."  
"Wearing only this . . ."  
"Where to miss?"  
"To the stars . . ."  
"You jump, I jump, right?"  
She felt limp and empty, like a torn rag doll, given love and taken away. He was her sun, her moon, her stars . . . I'm going to die, here, tonight. I am going to lie with him forever in the sand of the Atlantic floor. I'm going to go with him, to Titanic.  
She remembered being pressed to his chest and gripping onto his shirt, burying her head into his skin, feeling him so close, loving having him hold her, knowing that everything would be fine as long as his arms were around her . . .  
Now she could not feel any of that reassurance. His scent, his scent that made her legs melt with the essence of sandalwood and charcoal, was buried deep beneath salt and cold.  
He had been so alive. His blonde hair falling into the eyes that shaped her, his tan skin glowing bronze in the sunset, an overcoat blowing in the wind, his worn shirt whisking across his chest, his smile making all of the rest of the world disappear.  
She closed her eyes tighter and tried to put a stop to her weeping. She was waiting for death. Quite literally, she was waiting to die and feel him again, hold him, kiss him, see him smile at her with that brilliant, boyish grin she treasured so deeply . . .  
The image of him clutching the board would not leave her. The blue ice, purple lips, pearled skin . . . He looked like he was in so much pain for her. So much pain.  
For her.  
It hit her again in a flash of knowing; causing her to suddenly open her eyes and stare wildly around. He had given his life for her own, had sacrificed himself so that she could lie on the door and out of the waves. He had died so she might live.  
Still numb with shock at coming to the sudden realization that he was dead, she remembered the last words he had said to her and tears that were supposed to be hot with hurt but were iced with misery again rained down her face.  
"You . . . you must . . . you must do me this one honor . . . You must promise me . . . that you'll survive. That you won't . . . give up . . . no matter what happens . . . no matter how - hopeless . . . Promise me, now Rose . . . and never let go of that . . . promise."  
" . . . I promise."  
"Never let go."  
"I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go."  
God, no . . . She inwardly began a torrent of terrified weeping at the very thought of having to go on without him. He couldn't, wouldn't, make her . . . she had nothing, absolutely nothing, and the one thing she had had, love, was drowning on the bottom of the Atlantic.  
Oh God, I couldn't go Jack. I couldn't go!  
How could she go now?  
In the middle of the sea, in the presence of a thousand dead, in the haunting memories of her past, in the torturing pain of love, she took in what she prayed to be her final breath. He had understood then. How could he not understand now?  
Jack, please, I need you . . . you can't leave me now . . . not now . . . Oh God, I need you. How can you come to me and give me the hope to go on, but then leave me stripped and cold alone in the darkness?  
She was being so selfish.  
They had been through so much. The events were blurring in her head so she could hardly think, but they were still there . . . walls of water washing down the hallways, knocking them off their feet, the iceberg in Thomas Andrew's eyes, the terrifying experience of almost leaving him . . .  
She didn't even want to think about how horrible it would have been for her to be safe in a lifeboat and him freezing in the sea. She had stayed with him then. You jump, I jump, right? Why was it any different now?  
Even as she slowly began to loosen her grip on life, the wave of guilt swept through her body.  
"We're gonna make it Rose! Trust me!"  
"I trust you!"  
He wanted her to live. He had had a purpose for making her promise. If only she could trust him now.  
She wished that she could ignore his plead and her word, pretend that it wouldn't matter to him, die in the water that had taken her heart, soul, spirit, and mind already, in the blackness that reigned where warm light had once been.  
But it wouldn't be love.  
It was a decision that would forever haunt her dreams. His lips, his freedom, his spirit was imprinted in her like a hot brand to the skin and she would never forget it.  
"Hello . . . ?! Can anyone hear me . . . ?!"  
The light swept like the pain inside around her, making paths with its glare.  
Before she could think, she spoke. She didn't want to. It was as if he was inside her, guiding her, telling her what she must do. She fought it with all her heart, but as she had none left it wasn't much of a battle. She was so weak. So, so weak. Her voice was choked with tears and she wanted Jack to hold her, to tell her it would be alright.  
Before the words left her mouth, an angry prayer was again sent up to God. She wished that she could believe He could hear her, but faith, mercy, and grace were gone from her life, perhaps for an eternity.  
Lord, how could you? How could you? What are you trying to prove? You made my life and then tore it into pieces, scattering it in the wind like dust. Why did you take him from me?  
He saved me.  
So many times.  
And then she was speaking silently to Jack, knowing that he was listening, knowing that wherever he was, be it beside her or at the ends of the universe, from the ocean's deep to heaven high, she knew he could hear her.  
I love you.  
There was nothing else to say. She refused to say goodbye, it was too final. She hurt too much to think anything else. Somewhere deep in a memory, a memory that felt like forever ago, stirred the remembrance of her total surrender to him, her complete yielding to the love she felt bursting in her heart, to the charm and beauty of freedom.  
She could almost taste the salty sweetness of his lips; feel his sweat mixing with her own; touch his long and hanging hair.  
An attack of anxiety hit her. Everything was throwing itself at her - the gates, the boats, the water, the death, the lights flickering, a tremendous crack, a painful slap, her mother's screams, the cold . . .  
She had been through so much that she still wasn't thinking clearly. If she had been, she would have surely broken her promise and let go, allowed the warm feeling of love and sleep envelop her, waken to be again in his arms.  
However, she wasn't. Her past was so blurry that there was only one thing in her mind - Jack. You promised Jack and he believed you. You don't break promises to those you love.  
In the darkness, that was all she needed to know. She gripped his hand tighter. She did not allow herself to think about how she would survive the guilt of leaving him in the sea. She did not allow herself to think of an eternity and an afterlife preserved forever beneath her in the evilness of the Atlantic - the result of one iceberg, of rushing water, of hard human hearts. She simply closed her eyes, praying with all her might that she would have the strength to trust Jack again. She had to trust him. It was all she had left.  
She had still not come to grips with his death. Maybe it was best at the moment. In the back of her brain, she still expected his eyelids to flutter open, his lips to spread apart, and him to say something like, "Rose . . . It'll be alright. I'm here. I would never leave you. It'll be alright. We'll make it - together."  
Would he ever leave her?  
So, somehow, she felt her mouth opening. She struggled against it, still caught in the current of heartbreak and disbelief.  
The boat was rowing further and further away.  
" . . . Is anyone alive out there . . .?!"  
Her voice was filled with tears and sobs like pieces of shattered glass stuck in her throat. She was hurting again, the water stabbing at her like the cold blade of Satan. How she had lived this long she didn't know. And then she heard the murmur that she was creating but didn't understand why or how.  
"Come back!" The tears fell harder and the grief grew inside her as she continued to try to scream, but omitted barely more than a whisper. "Come back! . . . Come back! . . . Come back!"  
" . . . Hello . . .?!"  
". . . Come back! . . . C . . . come back!"  
The beam of light moved further on, the oars dipped further away in the evil water. No one could hear her. She was being smothered by death and hell was going to have another victory . . .  
The determination and bravery welled into her heart so suddenly that she felt choked and knew it had come from Jack himself. No. Hell was not going to have another victory. She was not going to break a promise to Jack Dawson. The ocean was not going to take her blood and body. Not without a fight.  
Looking down, she knew she had to get the officer's attention. She was being tied on the board by Jack's body. Their hands were frozen together.  
She didn't pause to think because if she did she would surely give up. Before she could as much as realize what she was doing, she grasped Jack's wrist and wrenched his hand apart from her own.  
Silently, he began to drift into the deep, not having support to hold him up any longer.  
Oh God, what have I done? Oh God . . . Oh God . . .  
She wanted to take him into her arms, to kiss his face, to warm him with her body, to hold him forever . . .  
She wept. Lonely, forsaken, and nearly dead, the tears fell from her cheeks like stones dropped into the waves. She couldn't catch her breath. The darkness made it hard to see him, but she had memorized every curve and couldn't banish him from her mind.  
So little time they had had, but so much they had found. Because he was not attached to her any longer, because they were separated, she was hit with regret. She felt as if someone had cut her apart, leaving her exposed to cold death with her heart lying in the open.  
And I did that. I did that.  
She couldn't tear her eyes from his form, even if she couldn't see him. As long as he was there, as long as they were together, she could live.  
But she would die.  
Shh . . . Rose . . .  
Something warm and beautiful filled the blackness of her soul and she awoke from her tortured slumber immediately.  
That voice . . . that calm, reassuring voice . . .  
Jack?  
Shh . . .  
There were no thoughts to express her emotions.  
Yet.  
She couldn't let herself think. She promised . . . how could Jack believe in her and love her if she lied to him? She would never lie to him.  
Then the trust again . . . she had always trusted him and he had always saved her. On the bow - she would have tried to kill herself again if no one had loved her. Yet he had shown her he did.  
While the ship was sinking . . . he had found her in the water, brought her to the board, and made her swear she would live. He must have fought so hard . . .  
His head was covered by boiling waves and, terrified and shocked, she searched for his face. Those beautiful, amazing, clear blue eyes that read her spirit - they would never open again. How could the world survive with his vision? How could she? All of her life she had been waiting to see those eyes.  
I love him. Oh Jesus Christ, I love him. I have to love him.  
"I'll never let go. I promise."  
She could almost see him catching her tears, holding them and kissing them away.  
Her mouth met his hand, shaking with the ardor that burned within her heart. She stop to grieve that this would be the last kiss she could ever give him. She would have committed suicide if she thought that.  
With an inside cry, she tore her hand from his and let the last of him disappear into the darkness that had taken Titanic and so many, many others, freeing him from her pain and forgiving him for leaving her. The scream rocked through her body, echoing off every wall, shrieking of her grief.  
She hung over the side of the door, watching him until she could see no more, crying more and more until there was nothing left of her.  
Just like that, she left her heart and soul with the sea, allowing the Atlantic to drain the true life out of her, needing to keep a part of her with Jack.  
Before she was ready, she slid down the wood into the black water. The fresh coldness hit her like a stone club and she was once again blinded by physical pain, allowing the mournful melody of pleading rocket its way to the heavens, unwilling praying for deliverance.  
For the rest of her life, she would never feel the warmth again.  
The ice was gnawing at her until she wanted to die. A thousand knives driving through her skin, stabbing her neck and legs and chest. She couldn't breathe.  
In her torture she managed to kick clumsily to a nearby deck chair. Water got into her mouth and she spit it back out, fighting solely and only for Jack. This was what he wanted.  
Shivering and shaking so hard her body was almost in convulsions, she threw herself on the chair. The crewman from earlier was frozen to the wood, but he was gone. He had been gone for a long time. His eyes were closed and his face twisted in suffering.  
With an almighty thrust, she tore the gleaming metal whistle from his mouth and pressed it to her own now black and purple lips, trying to gather the strength to blow.  
Finally, a shrill screech flew around her, trapping the rest of the silent ocean in its sound. Weak at first, the cry for help grew louder and louder . . .  
The officer stopped yelling out. For a moment, he seemed frozen. Then she saw his form whirl around he shouted, "Turn about!"  
The light beam cast itself in a piercing glow on her. She was blinded by the brightness of it in her dark world.  
Then, as the boat swung around and rowed ever closer, it hit her so quickly and bitterly that she stopped blowing.  
Suddenly she wanted to die. To disappear and vanish, to be tortured for eternity, to drown in pain, to enter the darkest chambers of hell.  
Jack Dawson was dead. 


	18. Nothing But Blackness

**Hey! It's been over a month, I know. Sorry y'all! By the way, thanks Britta. I could have never finished this chapter without your encouragement. Aren't you proud of me? (. OK, I didn't get a lot of reviews on the last chapter. I know why. Most of ff net was furious with me, but read this one and please review it, OK? I never realized how hard it was to write a chapter without any reviews.**  
  
The first thing he noticed was the cold. Tearing and ripping at him like the teeth of a lion, assassinating his mind and leaving him numb.  
Where was he? Why was he here? He was back in the ice pond . . . but the pain was far, far worse this time. Not only physically, but he detected a heavy misery and guilt lying in his barely-beating heart.  
He tried to open his eyes but all he could see was blackness - and the sting of salt against his eyeballs. Salt, cold, water . . .  
It all hit him so fast he gasped and the sea washed into his lungs. Titanic. The Atlantic. The sinking. Rose . . .  
Oh God! Rose!  
God damn it all to hell!  
The buzzing feeling that wracked through his body whenever he heard her name was filling him like the air he so desperately needed until his entire being was throbbing in its voice. The last he remembered was looking into her beautiful, beautiful face - seeing those deep sapphire jade eyes and longing for her ripe lips to be red and full again.  
Now it was dark and he was alone. Alone . . .  
Terrifying visions of a woman lying in the darkness met his mind. He could almost see the dying licks of her fire. Oh God, was that his fault? Was it his fault that she was alone, in the cold, without love?  
These thoughts were so confusing, but the entire time he felt his body drifting down and down, deeper and deeper. He was being torn from her again and he felt like a patient lying on a freezing metal table with his heart ripped from his chest and blood pooling around him.  
He was exhausted and was forced to helplessly go limp. Strangely, he felt as if he was watching the scene of his death from outside of his physical body, through the eyes of the sea. It terrified him so much that he closed his own eyes again, as though he could shut out all of the pain he was feeling.  
How could I do this to her? He asked himself, his mind reeling. I made her promise, swear to me that she would survive, that she would go on. And now I am the one giving up?  
For some strange reason, the memory of the first time he had ever seen her fogged in his brain. Maybe it was because it was the only comforting thought in his mind, his first vision of perfection . . .  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
The image was being captured on the paper slowly, perfectly. The only sound was the scratching of charcoal as he looked up and recorded what he saw before him, a tender moment between father and child, between little Cora and her Papa.  
They were having some conversation, but Jack wasn't listening. Words really didn't matter to him while he drew - it was the picture that would stay with him no matter where he went.  
It was a beautiful day. The sky was shining with all of the mysterious blueness it held, dotted with small fluffy clouds on the horizon. As it was high noon, the sun beat mercilessly down onto Earth, leaving lemon-yellow streaks in the air. The sea itself was green, foaming and churning with its emerald beauty. And Titanic was as majestic as ever, steaming her way across the North Atlantic.  
Fabrizio sat beside him, arms eagle-spread over the metal rails, his hat tilted carelessly atop his dark waves of hair. He looked past Jack, past the ship, perhaps trying to envision America, the land of golden dreams - or in Jack's case, the land of painful memories.  
Now, he didn't know how it felt to be going home. He had been so excited to win those tickets - ecstatic, shouting and carrying on, proud to finally be able to return to Chippewa Falls.  
But now he was unsure if he even wanted to go back.  
His motto had always been to put the past behind him and look forwards to the future, because if he hadn't he would just be the same old farmer's boy in Wisconsin, grieving over the loss of his parents.  
The recollections that would be stirred to the surface of his mind at going back to the place of his youth, at viewing the white-washed cottages and red barns, would be almost too terrible to bear. Besides, he had changed in the five years since he had left, and he didn't want anyone mistaking him for the boy he had been. Now he was a man and he had experienced more than most people would in his entire lifetime. He had visited it all - Italy, France, Switzerland, Spain, England - and had seen so many cultures starved for understanding and begging for mercy from the rest of the world.  
He remembered the prostitutes in France, dressed in their skimpy clothing, batting their eyelids flirtatiously at any as they passed. But beneath their makeup and garments were wasted, used bodies that desperately needed to be cherished and truly wanted instead of taken for pleasure and spat away. So he had tried to show them that there was something other than selling themselves for money. Never had he lain with a single one, but he could remember drawing them. Carefully, trying to make their inner beauty come forth so that they could understand they were not trapped by their lifestyles, that everyone is in possession of the key to free them.  
"Nice ship, no?" Fabrizio's voice wound around Jack's ears and he sighed, frustrated, trying to focus on his drawing. The ever-smiling Fabrizio de Rossi, however, did not respond to his friend's obvious aggravation. Instead shifted his weight on the board slightly, turning to face the counterpart in his conversation.  
Glad that his friend was occupied and no longer staring at his work, he continued to sketch Cora's face and was again lost in decisions that no man should have to face but were rearing their ugly heads right in front of him.  
So much must have changed in Chippewa Falls since he had up and gone. All of his friends were grown, some married, and maybe even a few had kids of their own. He would be so out of touch with the world he once knew that he reconsidered his decision to go back seriously.  
His charcoal stub scratched a few final touches into his drawing.  
"Yeah, it's an Irish ship."  
The unfamiliar speaker had a rough voice pasted with a heavy Irish brogue that was pleasant to hear. He stopped sketching for a moment and listened lightly to the conversation next to him, not truly eavesdropping but just curious.  
"She's English, no?" Fabrizio sounded genuinely confused. He had boarded in Southampton, she was owned by the White Star Line whose manager lived in England . . .  
"No, she was built in Ireland. Fifteen-thousand Irishmen built this ship. Solid as a rock. Big Irish hands."  
Fabrizio nodded, not truly believing this man, but thinking the conversation was pointless.  
Jack was startled by a jangling sound near his feet. He dropped his charcoal pencil in his lap and looked down. The heat warmed the back of his neck as he saw a harried steward leading four . . . dogs?! Before the anger bubbled up in his throat, he was overcome by amusement. The same ruddy Irish voice spoke his thoughts before he had time to think it.  
"That's typical." He tapped his cigarette against the rail and placed it back in between his lips. "First-class dogs come down here to take a shit."  
Jack's face broke into a grin and he turned to the man. His face was ruddy and cheery. He was tall and had sand-colored hair tightly curled around his scalp. His jacket was hanging loosely around his shoulders and he was leaning back, obviously too relaxed to unleash his fury.  
"Reminds us where we rank in the scheme of things," Jack remarked, his eyes dancing with laughter.  
The Irishman turned to him and smiled back. Clearly he had been waiting for an event to be sarcastic about class differences. Jack could tell that underneath all his pride and dignity, he had a righteous temper.  
"Like we could forget?" His smile widened and he puffed once on the cigarette. Then, quite suddenly as if following orders, he plucked it out of his mouth. "I'm Tommy Ryan."  
Jack leaned forward and shook his extended hand. "Jack Dawson."  
"Hullo."  
He turned to the Italian sitting beside Jack and shook his hand as well. "Fabrizio."  
"Hi."  
Tommy leaned back against the rail and started smoking again. Now his eyes were trained with interest at the sketchbook in Jack's lap. Jack watched his pupils follow every detailed line and gaze at the image of Cora and her father on the paper. He took the cigarette out and pointed it at the pad.  
"D'you make any money with your drawings?"  
He was about to answer. The grin was still on his face, his mouth was open, and his tongue was already forming the words.  
Then he glanced up.  
And froze.  
For in that moment, Jack Dawson saw an angel.  
He had never seen one before, but somehow he knew the moment he laid his eyes on that beautiful woman above him that she was an angel. Her long curls were elegantly fastened along her neckline, a few stubborn strands gorgeously hanging to her shoulders. Every silky lock was blood-red and gleamed with fire from the orange sunlight, dancing in the breeze around her heavenly face. Her dress was light and looked absolutely striking on her - fantastic white lace flowing over an apple-green gown, rippling around her amazing body in the wind. Her skin glowed with its shocking purity . . .  
God, he thought numbly, I would love to draw her.  
He didn't even notice that Tommy had turned curiously to see the celestial creature he was gazing so fixedly at. The Irishman's green eyes blurred for a moment from coming face to face with such amazing beauty. Then he seemed to almost shake his head of confusing thoughts before slightly shifting to make eye contact with Jack. He smiled again, this time with sympathy and pity for the American across from him. Another poor man enthralled by the impossible . . .  
"Ah, forget it boyo." He swallowed and absentmindedly tried to grind the heel of his boot against Titanic's solid wood decks. He blew the ash out of the tip of his cigarette and, shaking his head, swept his eyes up to the clouds. "You'd as likely have angels fly out of yer arse than get next to the likes of her."  
Jack did not pay attention to him. Butterflies took wing in his stomach because, as though she felt his stare, she turned abruptly to glance at him. He was taken aback as their gazes met.  
He read everything within her by just looking at her eyes, getting caught in those pools of deep jade, sapphire, emerald, and ocean swirling like pathways into her soul. Those eyes were so miserable, like shimmering ponds of hopelessness. He had seen that look before - a beautiful, dying dove needing to break out of her cage lest she let go of life.  
Her irises wept with neglect. She had been forgotten by all that she cared for and the relationships had melted and broken away, leaving her alone to fight through the drama of life without someone there to pull her up when she fell. Every glimmer of light that caught into those orbs of color reflected with starvation for freedom and love. How desperately he could tell she needed freedom and love! She was like an encased jewel - beautiful on the outside but decaying on the inside. Had she ever been held in her life with arms that would never let her go, shown the tenderness and affection needed for humankind?  
She looked away quickly as though shocked at her own daring, to make eye contact with a third-class stranger. For a moment her chest heaved as she breathed in and out, scandalized. But he saw that her own curiosity, something she had obviously denied herself for so long, pulled her gaze back to him again.  
Suddenly, Jack was astounded by his own mind. For the first time in his life, he didn't just want to sketch her. He wanted to crush her against his chest, assure her again and again that he would keep her safe, brush the curls from her skin, kiss the hallows of her neck as soft as a feather . . .  
He was vaguely aware of Fabrizio's arm coming into his view and blocking his vision of the angel for a moment, but it soon disappeared. A small chuckle at his side went unnoticed, as did everything else in the world.  
She was first class. He was someone who slept under bridges. She was Society. He was a starving artist. But all of the sudden all of their differences melted away. A woman and a man in a lonely world - that's all that there was. And in that moment, he would have died a thousand times just to take her hurt away. He didn't know her name, her scent, the sound of her voice . . . but he would have shouldered her burden a million times over just to make her smile.  
He felt something beautiful and hot fly lightly around his heart and he breathed deeply. An emotion he didn't know.  
As he watched, a man walked up to this amazing woman and touched her lightly on the arm. As his soul crumbled, he realized that this man was some . . . lover . . . of the red-haired angel. He possessively grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him. Horrified, Jack watched as his fingertip slipped softly and teasingly across her breast, as if he was declaring his ownership. The man had a fancy tuxedo on and clasped a top hat in his hand. His dark hair was slicked back from his high forehead and his black eyes seemed so dull and dead . . .  
The woman jumped as the man touched her, wrenching her stare from Jack and turning angrily to her side.  
Jack barely caught her voice, seething with fury, say, "Do you mind?" Oh, God, it was a beautiful voice - longing for the harmony and richness of the life that was being snatched from her.  
The man seemed amused for a moment, but quite quickly turned cold and scolding. "I hope you're proud of it," he muttered, as though not wishing to cause a scene.  
Jack watched as the girl pulled herself out of his grasp, murmuring incoherent phrases at him that Jack was willing to bet were not compliments. She rolled her eyes and swept away with all elegance imaginably, furiously brushing a curl from her face.  
The man stood there for a minute, his lips pressed tightly together as though not to allow the words he wanted to say tumble from his mouth. Then he tossed his hat in his other hand and turned on his heel, stomping off inside.  
Jack sat there, simply staring ahead, thinking. He could never be with that woman. He would probably never see her again. He couldn't dwell on her like this. He had to clear his mind.  
Therefore, he accepted Tommy's lazy invitation to a poker game.  
All throughout the evening, though, that beautiful face kept dancing in his head. An angel going through hell.  
One thought rang again and again through his mind. How could people become so . . . hopeless?  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
Hopeless. Jack knew everything was hopeless.  
He had loved and been loved - true love. Something so beautiful, so pure, so . . . so sacred that it was still so much like touching the moon for him.  
And it was gone.  
It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve to float away into some deep black pit. Oh God, Rose didn't deserve it.  
A shocking, terrifying, and ripping pain tore across his legs, making them scream from the icy fire that the hurt spit out. He gasped but only water filled his lungs, making him cough and sputter with the freezing temperature pumped inside of him. Bubbles streamed around his face.  
All through this entire time, he realized suddenly, he had been feebly kicking upward.  
Upward. Where the air was.  
Where Rose had been.  
What if he couldn't find her? What if . . . what if she was . . .  
No. No way in hell was he going to give up on her like that. He didn't give a damn what odds were against him, but he was going to find Rose. Because without Rose, he wasn't Jack, and if he wasn't Jack, Rose wasn't Rose. He would die before making her loose her newly-found self.  
With a barely audible sputter, his frozen face was thrust from the terrible sea into the horrible world. It was so cold . . . his skin no longer felt like ice, it was ice. He could hardly move. His limbs were in so much pain that they refused to respond to his brain.  
His lips, slack and lifeless with near-death, managed to shape her name, but his voice box wouldn't work. He snapped open his eyes, but told himself not to react to what he saw. Not to feel.  
It would have been simple, except God made human hearts to feel.  
A little girl with a head of golden hair was lying motionless in the ocean, her eyes open wide and glassy with fear and pain. A worn brown shawl moved against her body, flowing over the waves with almost beautiful grace. How dare it? How dare there be such beauty flooding the terror of no mercy . . .  
She had had her whole life ahead of her. She should have been able to loose another tooth, or run in the mud, or climb trees - fall in love, get married, have children, have a life . . .  
But a world that could have been had died with her, becoming a world that will never be.  
He looked away, shivering with fear and cold and despair. Was Rose having to see this? I have to find her.  
" . . . Rose . . ." The sound came out as a scratchy murmur, hardly enough to stir the air around him. He received no answer.  
" . . . Rose!" Slightly stronger this time, her name flew like wind around him, like wings.  
All that replied to him was dead silence.  
Dead silence.  
He didn't let himself think about the context of those words. It's not like that, he thought, she's strong. She's stronger than anyone I know. She . . .  
" . . . Rose!" Suddenly he was frantic. He tried to swim, but he couldn't. Water splashed around his body, sending ripples across the smooth surface of the sea. He struggled madly, not paying attention to the pain. He looked around, terrified, for Rose, that exotic beauty who had came into his life and made turned everything backwards, his goals inside- out, his dreams upside down.  
He would give anything to kiss her. To take in her rose water scent. To crush her against him and bury his face in her hair. To tell her everything would be alright.  
But he couldn't.  
Titanic had proved something. For the first time ever, Jack Dawson couldn't say everything was going to be alright, because it wasn't. For the first time ever Jack Dawson couldn't.  
He could still feel her trembling with nervousness against him, even though she said she was fine. Still feel his hands roaming over her body, unsure of what to do, but knowing that he just wanted to show her gentle, fierce love. There could be gentle, fierce love.  
Her face, looking at him with adoration and trust . . .  
Furiously, he pounded his fist in the water and the throb, the tearing, the fuzziness shot through him.  
Trust. He had betrayed her. He was no better than the son of a bitch she had been engaged to. She was out in this hell, alone, freezing, somewhere, and here he was, dying, not having the strength to find her.  
It was dark and empty . . . bodies were lying still beside him . . .  
In his mind's eye, he saw a girl, her colorless curls frozen to a board, her body so still, her wide-open eyes sparkling with ice -  
He didn't realize he was crying. He couldn't feel the cold tears or the sting of the salt on the cuts on his cheek. He was losing consciousness, everything ebbing away from him.  
It was too late for him. He knew that now. He could barely remember the heavenly bliss he had been sealed in, the icy terror he had been thrown into. The tangible horror of Titanic, the soft kisses of his love.  
I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go.  
His eyes, which had been ever-so-gently closing, jerking open with a painful, tearing sensation. He was so tired . . . so tired . . .  
But Rose had been too. Rose was in this pain with him. And Rose would not give up.  
How could he?  
He was here under the judgment of billions of stars, throwing their sparkle in the quiet black canvas of the evil sea. But more than that, he was in the being looked at through the eyes of one beautiful, amazing, free woman who was like the waft of a flower in the current of the wind, whom he loved, and who adored him. To let her down was worth a million of these cold, senseless deaths. There was a bit of hope that he could find her.  
And for Jack Dawson, that had always been enough.  
"I saw that on a nickelodeon once and I always wanted to do it."  
"And if you don't break free you're gonna die, maybe not right away because you're strong but . . . sooner or later that fire that I love about you Rose, sooner or later that fire's gonna burn out."  
"It's not up to you to save me Jack."  
"Hello, Jack. I changed my mind."  
"You're trembling."  
"Do you trust me?"  
"I trust you."  
"Nervous?"  
" . . . No . . ."  
"Put your hands on me, Jack."  
"Let's say we'll go there, someday, to that pier, even if we only just talk about it."  
"No, we'll do it! We'll drink cheap beer, we'll ride the roller coaster till we throw up, and then we'll ride horses on the beach, right in the surf. Now, you'll have to do it like a real cowboy, none of that "sidesaddle" stuff."  
"You mean . . . one leg on each side?!"  
"Mmmhmm."  
". . . Will you show me?"  
"Sure. If ya like."  
"Come Josephine . . ."  
The song drifted as a haunting memory around him as ghostly as the blackness, the sea, the cold, and the death.  
". . . my flying machine . . ."  
Orange sunlight, the last rays of day, was warming his body now. She was in his arms for the first time. His heart was skipping beats. His breath was on her neck. Their lips were so close . . . The wind was whipping like a truth he couldn't grasp around them. The waves crashed on the bow. It was intoxicating, being so near to hear, catching the scent of her rose curls . . .  
". . . and it's up she goes . . ."  
Suddenly everything went black and he was alone. He shouted her name and reached for her hand. He had to find her, had to pull her with him, to safety, but something was in the way . . .  
". . . up she goes . . ."  
She drifted to the stars, away from him, and he could hear her scream.  
"Jack!"  
She was trying to run to him, but she couldn't.  
"I love you, Jack . . ."  
She was everything to him. He would die without her.  
It had hit him tonight, when he had been staring into her eyes. Eyes that sparkled like that jewel he had been blamed for stealing. Swirling like mysteries of sapphire-emerald.  
The shame in those eyes, the guilt, when they had pulled that damn diamond out of his pocket had been unbearable to him. She had looked so hurt, so betrayed, so confused . . .  
And he had done that. He had.  
It had hurt him so much that he hadn't been able to breathe. All he had wanted was to hold her, to whisper into her curls that shone like scarlet flame, to kiss the tears away from her eyes. But she had looked at him with such spiteful hate that he had literally backed away. He didn't want to hurt her like that. God damn it, that was the last thing he had wanted to do.  
So he had found himself begging in front of her, looking into those crystals and pleading for her to see the Jack that he truly was, not the Jack that these cowards had tried to make him be. He could still feel her soft body under his and wasn't ready to give away that emotion.  
Truly, he wasn't ready to give away love.  
Now he could feel that feeling rising in his throat, that desperate desire to tell her the truth, to hold her, to reassure her.  
For a moment the cold and blackness ebbed into his brain. For one terrifying minute he couldn't remember her face.  
He could barely bring to his mind that red hair caressing her skin, tumbling in curls down her back, her smooth face, her beautiful jade eyes. He couldn't see every curve of her body like he had been able to and her voice in his mind sounded blurry.  
Oh God! No, no, no! I don't care about the pain, the cold, the darkness, the water . . . but I love her! Don't you ever take her away from me! Please! If you take her away - just kill me. Rose! Don't leave me. Oh God, don't leave me.  
Without warning he felt a bitter, evil hate towards himself. He wanted to rip himself into shreds, cut at his body, stab his chest. It was all his fault. It was his damn fault that Rose was here, dying this horrible, terrible death. His fault Rose was alone. His fault! She was in so much pain and he did that. He had hurt her worse than he could even imagine. She had left everything she knew for a son of a bitch like him! What an asshole he was! Damn!  
He was slamming his fists in the water, the pain tearing through his body but him not noticing. His mind cleared. "Rose!" He shrieked. " . . . Rose!" All of the sudden his throat burned so bad that he couldn't speak. It constricted and tears flew down his face, draining will and life from him, leaving his chest stinging and his soul empty.  
He didn't know the screams were from him. They sounded so unearthly and in so much shock . . .  
He couldn't understand. He didn't want to understand. All he wanted to do was drown in his confusion and guilt. What else did he deserve? The cold wasn't as bad now . . . he was losing the feeling in his body and he knew it. The only thing after could be eternal darkness of hell. Right now, all he knew were the black screams.  
Suddenly, the cloudy vision that had been misting in his eyes suddenly vanished and was replaced by a bright, white light that seared through his eyelids and attempted to silence his shrieks. The beam swept across his face.  
If this was death, he didn't want to be spared.  
" . . . Rose . . ." he choked, struggling to say her name. The name of an angel that was too holy to be forced out of evil lips like his own.  
" . . . Here's another one . . . Right then, he's more than half dead already . . . a drowned rat . . . damn this . . . "  
The words sounded so strange, so devoid of the pain Jack was feeling, so heartless and cold, colder than the water. A blurry figure staring down on him, with deep coal-colored eyes like endless, lightless tunnels. Empty. Unfeeling. Or maybe everything else looked like that to just him.  
He was halfway convinced they were only figments of his imagination, not truly there. He was going crazy, losing his mind, and he couldn't hold onto it. Not that he wanted to.  
"Here . . . pull him up . . . I'm going to sue White Star's bloody ass off if we ever get out of this . . ."  
Before Jack could register the words of the strange man, two broad, warm hands gripped him under the arms. He felt himself being heaved up . . . out of the water . . . away from Rose . . .  
  
". . . No . . .!" He gasped. His weak, crumbling body suddenly lashed out and fought against the people. He couldn't leave her. He promised he would never leave her. He told her it would be alright.  
" . . . You don't understand . . . My Rose . . . "  
Again, a bitter, sour, painful taste came into his mouth when he sputtered out her name. He heard a sigh near him, from either man or wind he knew not.  
" . . . She's out there . . . please . . ."  
The men did not listen. Their grip, much stronger than his half-dead fight, only tightened around his muscles and pulled him away from the black waves.  
". . . I can't abandon . . . She's . . . God damn it, I love her . . . I love her . . ."  
He was crying again, more bitterly and pained then he ever had in his life. In the sea of bodies around him, all he knew was the lonely breeze sweeping from the grey horizon and the death, the hurt, the aftermath of Titanic. A tear fell into the sea, and he knew something. He knew that that tear was filled with love and pain and horror and hope, parts of him that would never leave this betrayed place.  
There was a thud, and he felt nothing, not even warmth, when he was hauled out of the endlessly deep Atlantic and dropped onto the hard keel of a lifeboat. He couldn't feel the wood against his back or the freezing temperatures that were claiming his life. Instead he just felt as if a hole had been gauged from his heart, leaving it bleeding and forsaken. His spirit and soul cried one thing, their voices entwining together like a vine choking the breath from his lungs.  
Just kill me. 


	19. Drowning in Ice

**Chapter Number Nineteen – enjoy everyone (. As always, review . . .**  
  
Rose did not open her eyes. There was no point. She was surrounded by eternal blackness either way. She thought her body felt bruised and battered, but she knew it was truly her soul.  
She was in so much pain . . . no one would ever understand. The screams had been silenced so long ago, and yet their shrieks still echoed in her head. She was trapped in herself, drowning in the darkness of grief without the will to live.  
Like a dream coming back to her on a cloud, he was there. The musty scent of him drifting to her – like work and charcoal and wood and sweat. He was breathing sweet words into her ear, trying to fan her flame back into the roaring fire that was her spirit.  
That fire was stamped out completely. The glowing coals had been extinguished and replaced by torturous hurt, hurt that screamed through her heart and tore her mind to shreds.  
She had been wrapped in thick flannel blankets as a pathetic attempt to warm her. God, didn't they know? There was no hope for her to be ever warm again. Ever.  
Anger overflowed inside of her at the goddamned officer in the lifeboat with her. The goddamned officer who had waited too long. The goddamned officer who had lost Rose her future. The goddamned officer who had made Jack suffer such unbelievable pain . . . .  
She tried to cry. Maybe she could wash some of the anguish of . . . losing . . . him with salty tears. Maybe she could weep away these awful feelings inside.  
But it was for that reason that water would not form on her eyelids. It was for that reason her cheeks remained dry. She did not want relief from her emotions. She deserved this torment for an eternity.  
You fool, she thought to herself. You despicable fool.  
Cries wracked her body. Cries that were woven with a burst of colors – red for blood that had pulsed in his veins, black for loss that she had been destroyed with, blue for the sea that had claimed her heart, yellow for the sunshine she would never feel, orange for a horizon that was no longer there, lavender for a love that was drowned.  
She began to slip into a restless sleep that was laced with agony. She did not have the power to fight it. Ever so slowly, her mind fogged until she could think no more.  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
Don't worry, Rose DeWitt-Bukater told herself, He'll be there.  
She stared hard into the vanity mirror in her stateroom, as if challenging her reflection to disagree.  
To her utter relief, the only thing that returned her gaze was her expression, wholly as it was on her face.  
This is getting insane, she thought briskly. You barely know the man. You just talked to him for one afternoon – one afternoon! – and you are going crazy with anxiety over him.  
The truth was, Mr. Jack Dawson was no ordinary man and she knew it. Even though she had been around the male race all of her life, tonight she found herself splashing extra dabs of perfume over her skin and washing her face more carefully with cold, clear water.  
There was a slight knock on her bedroom door and Trudy, Rose's maid, whisked inside, curtseying hurriedly.  
"Goodness Miss Rose, we have to hurry and get you ready!" She rushed and started to tighten the laces of Rose's corset, pulling until there was hardly room for Rose to breathe.  
"Trudy, please!" She gasped, her chest heaving against the restrictions the undergarment presented. "Not so tight! I don't want to faint in front of J . . . Mr. Dawson, do I?"  
For a moment, the servant's forehead creased and Rose knew what she was thinking. Who was this mysterious Mr. Dawson and why was Rose so concerned about what he thought? Rose never gave a care about Mr. Hockley's interpretations. But soon Trudy's fingers loosened the pressure on Rose's ribcage.  
He might not show up. He might not even want to talk to me. Oh God, I'm going crazy.  
Trudy helped Rose slip into her evening gown – one of the latest fashions. The dress itself was slim and close-fitting. It had a rather low-cut neckline, short sleeves, and black lace and beads draped over red silk. Her mother had chosen it for her. "It accents your figure so nicely," she had said. "Cal will love it."  
Inwardly, Rose groaned at the thought of Cal. He had seemed so charming at first – an heir to one of the biggest fortunes in Society and a respected man in the steel business, someone who could treat her like a queen. But after the engagement, things had changed. Rose felt more like a chambermaid than a royalty at all. Not that it mattered what she thought anyway. For Cal, Rose was more or less of a trophy, a glittering object to show off and control. The only problem was that Rose DeWitt- Bukater had just enough spirit within her to make this task difficult for him, which in turn crumbled any relationship they had been building. Now she was stiff and cold at his touch. She did not speak to him unless spoken to. Quite honestly, she acted as if she abhorred him, and she believed she did.  
The only thing that she was confused about was the mystery of Mr. Dawson. Jack was unlike anyone she had ever known before and it both amazed and terrified her. He believed in . . . in life, in love, in freedom . . . these values that Rose had never experienced, had never known.  
She heard the door shut softly from her bedroom as Trudy slipped out to assist Ruth in dressing. She could see her overpowering mother, standing forebodingly in the middle of her room, directing her maid as if she was on her way to war, sifting through her countless gowns.  
That was the life that Rose was expected to live. She was expected to care about nothing, feel nothing, be nothing. Parties, socials, husbands, and children. Wasn't there something more?  
It was all too confusing, too puzzling, and she didn't have the strength to solve it. Her spirit was being taken from her, and she knew it, but still she refused to save herself. For some reason she thought she was expected to die, and Rose DeWitt-Bukater always did what was expected of her. So she allowed herself to drown in this heart-tearing Society, being callous and cold and unfeeling.  
The only thing with drowning was that, no matter how much you set your mind to it, your lungs still wanted glorious air.  
Pushing these thoughts from her mind, she rearranged her hair, twisting every fiery-red strand into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. A few curls were loose and framed her perfect face. Others lay on her skin, silk against her neckline. She stared into the mirror, not really seeing her appearance, and clasped her delicate silver and gold necklace about her neck. She fingered the pendant gently. Her father had given it to her – her irresponsible, disgraceful father who blemished the DeWitt-Bukater name and then died to leave her and her mother to deal with his problems – his enemies, his debts, his financial distress. Yet at the same time, even though he had slashed everything her grandfather had worked so hard to build, she loved him. It was a strange, furious, painful kind of love, something that she could not rid from her heart even if she did not want it there. She remembered how strong he had been – those big arms lifting her up when she was a little girl, twirling her around and around and around, never stopping. She remembered how his voice climbed and fell like a melody, rich and thick, when he read her a story, stories of princesses and dragons and princes and castles. She remembered how he held her when she cried, tears only an innocent little girl could cry. For all of this, and maybe even the pain he had put her through, she loved him.  
She fixed ruby earrings to her lobes, watching them gleam with her father's blood in the golden lights. That's what she thought of whenever she saw that kind of deep red. Her father's blood.  
I will not cry, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut. I will not cry. I can't do anything about it. I . . . will . . . not . . . cry.  
Somehow, she managed to keep her tears at bay and pull on her white satin gloves. The fabric reached to her elbows and she hated them. She hated the falseness of her class. She hated the fanciness and the need to impress the rest of the world. She hated that she couldn't just be herself.  
There was a knock on a door. She turned abruptly, interrupted in her world of fantasy and remembrance.  
"Come in."  
Cal stood in the doorway, his tuxedo stiff and starched, his hair slicked back. He looked intimating, but she refused to let it work on her.  
  
"I'm glad to see you're ready, sweetpea. You look absolutely stunning." His eyes swept her form, staying hungrily at certain parts of her body.  
She gave a tolerant smile, one she knew appeared cold, but she couldn't help it. Although she was hot with anger inside, it would not show on her outside. She knew that Cal wanted her to be warm to him, to be loving and obedient and submissive. But Rose did not want anything to do with him. She remembered the night her mother had told her, those three months ago. Ruth had almost twirled into the parlor, beaming with joy.  
The words that had swept from her mouth were words that changed Rose's life forever.  
"You are going to be Mrs. Hockley."  
Rose Hockley. The name sounded so strange, even in her mind. At night, she would sit in front of her vanity and try to say it, but it would not roll off her tongue. It sounded like two detached people, a flower and steel combined to freeze her in time forever.  
Cal was looking at her expectantly. Rose shook herself from her slumber to notice that her mother was on his arm and they were prepared to leave for dinner.  
She was always an outsider. It seemed as if Ruth and Caledon had planned the engagement for just their benefit, so therefore they went through it together. She knew that it would be unseemly for an older woman not to be escorted by a gentleman, and she really didn't mind not holding onto her fiancée. She liked being different, apart. It made her feel as if she had more control in her life, even if she knew she had none.  
The two turned and began to sweep out of the sitting room and into the hallway. The entire time they engaged in a pointless conversation that Rose was not paying attention to. All of Society's conversations were pointless when put in the face of love and life, of death and war, of starving children and deprived infants. She had realized this today, after her talk with Jack, so she just stopped listening.  
Instead, no matter how hard she tried not to, his image was still dancing on the edges of her mind. She kept seeing his face, his well- shaped cheekbones, his tan, smooth skin, and his long light-blonde hair sweeping boyishly into his eyes.  
Actually, for someone who had that boyish appearance, his eyes were too wise, too full of horrors and wisdom and maturity and things that no one else had ever seen. She knew that they flickered with flames from the fire that had claimed his family, his home, and his foundations of life. She knew that behind their pools of blue color were visions of the horrors of the world, and how people were really all the same, rich or poor, Italian or French or Swedish or American. In that gaze, she saw her faults and her gifts. She also saw rare, naked truth, and it terrified her.  
She hardly noticed that they were in the lifts now, going to idly chat with "acquaintances" under the dome of the magnificent Grand Staircase.  
The ride from B-deck to Boat Deck was short, but long enough for her to pay attention the bellhop.  
He had intelligent features – thick brown hair and sharp brown eyes, eyes that took in everything like an eagle's. He was backing against the control plate, near the lever to move the lift. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was watching the conversation between Cal and Ruth.  
Suddenly he felt Rose's gaze on him and his look swept to her. He was curiously returning her stare, and in those eyes she saw a person. A person. Not a poor crewman, not a disrespectful steerage rat. A person.  
That was when she began to take the final steps to breaking free from her Society, even if she didn't realize it. Jack Dawson had given her strength she didn't know she could possess.  
The golden doors slid open and Rose swept out first. Her mother's perfume lingered in the elevator and she whisked away to avoid the over- strong scent.  
She stared at the blinding-white dome of glass above her, gleaming with light even as late as it was because of its electric bulb. It was wrought iron, designs beautifully created into it. The Grand Staircase was molded from oak, a glorious stair with steps from marble that flowed elegantly from Boat Deck to A-deck. Carved from the same warm wood was the clock that displayed a picture of Honor and Glory crowning Time. It was so intricate, so amazing, that she could not tear her gaze from it. Everything was bathed in a golden light.  
She could hear her fiancée's deep voice and another man's joining his, trading introductions and civil greetings. She watched Cal and Ruth turn and begin to glide down the stairs, discussing Cal's business, of all things. Money, again. Rose was so sick of money.  
She followed them slowly, and she was stunned to realize that her heart was pounded like a drum and had moved to her throat. She was nervous about seeing Jack.  
Such a strange emotion poured over her whenever she was with him, refreshing and clear like cool water. Like her thirst was being quenched. Like she could walk on raindrops and float over clouds.  
She didn't want to know what that emotion was.  
She finally let her gaze travel down the steps to the landing.  
Please let him be there. I need him there. Don't let him forsake me.  
She felt like hundreds of tiny butterflies had taken wing in her stomach, forcing her whole body to flutter with anxiety. She knew she looked presentable, her gown pouring from her body in folds of red and black, silk and lace, her hair pinned elegantly along her neck, her eyes sparkling with excitement. But she felt as if she wouldn't ever be good enough, wouldn't ever look like more than a spoiled, pampered brat to Mr. Dawson.  
She recognized him immediately, standing at the base of the stairs, making gestures to Cal's back. He seemed to be talking to himself, and, Rose realized with amusement, Cal and Ruth had completely glided past him, hadn't even recognized him.  
She knew why. He looked like a first-class gentleman. He didn't look like the tumbleweed Jack anymore. His lovely blonde hair was slicked back away from his face, dark with water. He had somehow managed to borrow a tuxedo – his black pants were dustless and pressed, his snow-white shirt was stiffly starched to fit his chest, and his jacket was dark as night, made of what looked like Italian fabric. He even wore shiny, black shoes that reflected the light above him. She couldn't help but let a smile decorate her face as she saw the perfect satin bowtie laced under his collar.  
Even dressed like the others, he looked so out of place. She was still several steps away from him, but she could already feel his overpowering radiation of energy and life and joy. His eyes were dancing with the daring to leap over the challenge of acceptance and glowed with flashes of deep blue.  
When he turned with a light grin playing on his lips, she thought she would faint. He looked, began to turn away, and then realized she was there.  
When their gazes met, she felt like she was melting into warm water. She couldn't move. For a moment she was transfixed, her feet frozen to the marble beneath her. Everything began to spin and the only thing that remained solid and steady was his face. A smile was etched on her full, ripe lips, and it faded slowly as that feeling came over her, that feeling that always came over her when he was close to her, that feeling of flying and falling.  
Somehow, she told her legs to move. Finally her brain connected the message to her body and she slowly continued to descend the stairs, one step at a time, her gown rustling in its beauty behind her.  
He took a few smooth steps at the base to meet her. How can he look so calm? She asked herself. How can he be so sure of himself? How can his heart not pound and his stomach not flutter?  
He was like a welcoming beacon, and she paused a few steps above him, enthralled by his eyes.  
Jack took her gloved hand slowly, never taking his gaze away from hers. She thought she would faint when he touched the fabric. It was as if he was feeling through the satin, caressing her skin. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would rocket out of her ribcage and to the sky.  
Suddenly he lowered his lips to her hand and kissed her fingertips. Her feet froze to the floor. Everything began to spin. Colors blurred in and out. Her head throbbed like a drum. Excitement and joy tingled up every molecule in her body.  
Ever so gently he raised his head, becoming level with her even though she was a step above him. He was suppressing a smile and she saw him fight to keep a laugh from bubbling out of his mouth.  
"I saw that on a nickelodeon once and I always wanted to do it."  
It was just a slight brush of his mouth on her hand. So many hundreds of men had done it to her before. But this time she was drowning in feelings that made her cheeks glow and her skin become rosy and pink under his fingertips. She giggled at his comment. It was hard to imagine him sitting in a theatre, watching a man kiss a woman's hand. Not her tumbleweed Jack.  
Her Jack?  
She shoved the thought from her head as she watched his elbow extend towards her. When he offered it, she hesitated. From the way she was feeling now, she was terrified that she would make a fool of herself in some way, become unsophisticated and heady all over again, like this afternoon on deck.  
Well, the damage had already been done. Her feelings were already out of control, her responses purely instinct. And for some strange reason, she could not deny herself the pleasure of being with him again, of laughing until her stomach ached, of taking in his scent that was seeping through the tailored suit – of charcoal and sunlight and work and sandalwood.  
So before her practical, engaged self could interfere, she slipped her elegantly gloved hand into his elbow and allowed him to escort her from the stairs.  
She couldn't help but let her stifled laughter burst when he raised his nose in the air, obviously mocking the more pompous first-class passengers. She doubled over briefly, then quickly stood straight again as he lowered his face, a grin playing on his lips.  
If anyone had the right to mock Society, it was him. From what she had heard of his life, it had been rough and painful and callous, yet he had never backed down from the challenge of survival, had not once let the hardships of life actually rob away his life.  
It was that she admired him most for.  
He almost strutted along the marble, still forcing down a smile from his act. She steered him to her fiancée, dreading the fact that the time had come to reintroduce them.  
"Darling?" She asked. In her grip, she felt Jack shudder. Then again, maybe it was her. She hated using such a sweet name for a bastard like Cal. Maybe he was not a bastard, but he surely was not worthy of the title she bestowed upon him.  
Caledon whirled around, Ruth turning with him.  
"Darling, surely you remember Jack Dawson."  
Rose almost laughed when she saw their faces. Both of their polite smiles, results of pleasant and idle chatter, washed off of their faces. Two pairs of dead, choked eyes combed Jack for any flaws.  
Suddenly, Cal's fake smile sauntered back in place on his face. Although other people would have easily been fooled, Rose could still feel the tension and disdain that Cal truly was thinking.  
" . . . Dawson?" He sounded shocked, amazed, maybe even a little intimated. Surely she was imaging it. Caledon Hockley, son of a Pittsburgh steel tycoon, was never intimated. Especially by someone of such low social status.  
Then again, maybe it was the raw truth and acceptance about Jack that unbalanced him. No matter what it was, it caused him to shoot something full of vengeance out into the open.  
"Well, you couldn't almost pass for a gentleman! How extraordinary!"  
In that moment, Rose wanted to slap her fiancée. How dare he be such an idiot to a guest, someone he knew she enjoyed the company of? She watched, seething, as Cal turned away, towing Ruth behind him.  
Almost automatically she looked up into Jack's eyes, begging an apology. He shrugged it off with a grin and started walking again. His expression was one of amusement, and although she didn't know if it was all honest, she forced herself into believing it and followed after him.  
"I was afraid you wouldn't come." Rose tried to mask some of the relief from her voice, but it appeared he sensed it anyway because his smile broadened and he shook his head.  
"Nothing could keep me away. It's my reward," he answered, looking down at her, a little bit of a laugh sparkling in those orbs of blue.  
"You wouldn't have jumped," he whispered in her ear, making her tingle with sensations.  
Down the Grand Staircase they went, flight by flight, exchanging small conversation.  
"So, these are all the rich people, huh?" He asked quietly as they turned to descend the last few steps, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. She nodded and, when they paused on the landing, decided it was best to acknowledge the different people to him.  
"There's the Countess of Rothes."  
He straightened his coat with his free hand and turned to where she discreetly pointed. She saw him evaluating the woman, reading into her soul, with his artist's eyes, something only he could do. They concentrated their swirling calm water blue at the Countess. She was clothed in layers of off-white and a solitary feather was stylishly fixed into her glossy brown hair. But Rose could tell that Jack was looking past her appearance and into the hidden depths of her heart.  
He bit his lip and turned back to Rose as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. She stared up at him, transfixed, as he looked back down on her, shifting that free-spirit, heart- melting gaze at her.  
She woke from her trance. Don't you do this, Rose, she scolded herself inside. Don't you listen. It's just Mr. Dawson. Just Mr. Dawson.  
Frantically, she knew she had to keep the conversation going. She picked out a familiar face in the crowd.  
"That's Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress, Madame Adair. Mrs. Guggenheim is at home with the children, of course . . ."  
Jack turned to study the stately form of Mr. Guggenheim and his handsome face looked again amused, whereas every other face in the room looked repulsed. The middle-aged man, now left with nothing but a small halo of smoke-colored hair, was flirting madly with his sleek, dark-haired mistress, who was giggling over a cup of champagne and looked quite out of it. Rose could see foggy memories stir behind Jack's pupils.  
Why was she already feeling to be a part of those memories?  
"And that's John Jacob Astor," she continued as she looked and saw the couple descending the stairs. They moved over to engage in conversation with their fellow passengers. "The richest man on the ship. His little wifey there, Madeline, is my age and in a delicate condition."  
She swept Madeline up and down, seeing her unfailing elegant beauty and also noticing the almost hidden rounding of her stomach beneath folds of burnt oranges and golds.  
"See how she's trying to hide it? Quite the scandal." She added playfully, turning back to Jack, suddenly so close she could feel his warm, minty breath fall on her skin. He chuckled and his wonderful smile lit his face again. She tried not to notice how his eyes traveled around her face, searching for something, trying to give something. It made her feel like she could run around the world to meet him, that she would fly to Mars to be with him. She tried to ignore the feeling.  
"And there's Sir Cosmo and Lady Lucille Duff-Gordon," she finished, watching the older couple that Cal and her mother were speaking so animatedly with. The man's grey, drooping mustache only added to his intimidating appearance. His wife's eyes were dark and seemed to burst from her skeletal face.  
"She designs naughty lingerie," Rose continued, waving a delicate hand to the Sir and the Lady. Before she realized what she had said, her cheeks turned pink and her eyes sparkled brighter. "Very popular among the royals."  
Here Jack laughed, and he looked down on her again. He was looking past her outer beauty right now, and she knew it. She felt like she was melting into liquid from his gaze. The only thing she could concentrate on was his lips, how smooth and soft they looked, how she wanted to press her own against them . . .  
Suddenly he brushed a curl from her face and she heard herself inhale deeply. His smile softened and broadened at the same time. The sounds and visions of the Reception Room began to fade away. He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and she would kiss him back . . .  
"Sweetpea?" Cal's voice drifted into her dream world, jerking her into reality. Jack's grin turned more apologetic as Rose turned to her fiancée.  
Her fiancée.  
She didn't want to remember she was engaged, didn't want to feel the heavy diamond on her finger. She wanted to be free.  
"Yes?"  
Usually, in public, she would have added "darling," but she could not make herself right now.  
"We're leaving the Reception Room for the Dining Saloon." He turned to Jack. "Dawson, you'll be still joining us then?"  
Jack seemed to laugh at Cal with his eyes and Rose knew that Jack realized Cal didn't want him to come. But then, with or without an invitation had obviously never mattered to him. So of course, Jack nodded and started to follow Cal and Ruth. He seemed to almost gingerly step on the lush carpet, as if he was afraid to soil it. As they gracefully descended the last flight of the Grand Staircase, Rose steered him over to the left with a gentle push of her gloved hand.  
His walk was smooth, confident, but somehow she knew he was nervous. She could feel it. She could feel his emotions.  
For awhile, they strode in compatible silence. Every once in a while, Jack would make some remark that would send a laugh out of Rose's throat.  
"This isn't exactly a party," Rose murmured, watching Jack's eyes flick around the room like a flame, taking in everything in their path. He turned to her suddenly and chuckled.  
"Nah, but that's fine with me. I've been to enough parties to last me a lifetime."  
He licked his lips, seemingly waiting for her to say something. Her curiosity got the better of her as they walked, and she pushed a curl out of her eyes.  
"What sort of parties?" She asked, watching him, interested. He seemed to have done more in twenty years then generations of her family had ever done. She was attracted to him because of that – because of his spirit and his charm. She loved hearing him talk about his experiences, and as of now she slowed her walk to listen.  
When he spoke, it was softly. His head was inclined to hers and she kept her eyes on his face, watching for the bright portrait of passionate emotions that always painted his form when he talked.  
"Well, back home in Chippewa Falls, we did a lot of nonsense partying. We weren't really wild kids, but we all would get together in some old barn and dance till we turned blue. I never got real good at it, hell, never came close, but no one really cared. No one really cared, that is, till I got older and started dancin' more seriously with the girls. Then I had to get better because they didn't appreciate my stepping on their feet all the time." A wry smile appeared on his cheeks and she giggled, quickly masking the laugh because of social proprieties.  
"And then my parents died and you know I left. Couldn't stand to be there with the memories. I was gone on the first train. Didn't look back. Never have. And that's where the conflicts began. I had always been a well respected kid. Well behaved. I didn't know how to deal with nightlife when I first was introduced to it in France. I had never gone outside in New York at night, not once. But in France I didn't have a choice. I had worked my way across the ocean and didn't have two cents to rub together. Didn't even have one to drop on the sidewalk. So I had to work. Mostly, I had to work at night on the docks. Loading ships in time to go out at dawn, unloading cargo for stores. Sometimes, when I couldn't get a job, I would sketch and sell my drawings on the streets to all of those who came out at dark."  
Rose continued to watch him, intrigued.  
"Well, one night, I heard this music in an old, falling down building. Of course I went in. Let's just let it be sufficient to say that there were . . . dancers . . . in there. And –"  
Jack was interrupted as a heavy woman swathed in furs, silk, and feathers appeared rudely next to him. He smiled, never once letting on that he was annoyed, when he recognized Mrs. Brown.  
"Care to escort a lady to dinner?" She asked in her southern drawl, arranging her scarf. Her hair had been curled in fat, shiny ringlets that were pinned atop her head under an elaborate headdress. She was wearing dark makeup and looked like she was still "new money."  
Jack didn't seem to notice. If he did, he didn't care. "Certainly," he replied, holding out his free elbow to Mrs. Brown. Molly took it and trudged along beside them, a strand of his slicked back hair handing into his eyes. He shook it away from his forehead and it became tucked behind his ear.  
"No trick to it, is there Jack?" Molly commented as they whisked into the dining salon. "Now remember, they love money, so just pretend you own a gold mine and you're in the club."  
Rose inwardly acknowledged the fact that her fellow first-class passengers were so shallow, cash and physical beauty were all of importance to them. She was beginning to see that in Margaret Brown, there was the sort of naked truth that Jack possessed, though a bit more tarnished than his perhaps.  
"Hey Astor!" Molly suddenly shouted out, letting go of Jack and waddling over to the richest man on Titanic, John Jacob Astor, and his wife.  
"Why, hello Molly," Mr. Astor smiled.  
"J.J., Madeline, I'd like you to meet Jack Dawson," Rose said politely.  
"Hello, Jack," John started boisterously. He shook Jack's hand firmly.  
"How do you do," Madeline followed.  
"Are you of the Boston Dawsons?" Her husband inquired, his dark, wavy hair sprinkled with grey.  
Jack seemed to almost smile for a moment. The Boston Dawsons. Sure. No, this Jack had grown up on a farm in the middle of nowhere, knowing no place but Wisconsin. This Jack had lounged in the company of drug-addicts and alcoholics and prostitutes, trying to show them true life.  
  
"No," he said, shaking his head to affirm what was coming from his mouth, "The Chippewa Falls Dawsons, actually."  
Mr. Astor grazed over Jack's face, trying to detect a joke or a twinge of laughter. But he was as solid as ever, his face solemn and mysterious.  
"Oh yes, yes . . ."  
As Jack and Rose walked away, arms looped, Rose murmured quietly, "My, my, Mr. Dawson, we can manipulate people, can't we?"  
He grinned.  
Suddenly she could almost feel his pulse quicken as he looked about the dining saloon. She almost heard his thoughts – so many, many people, in dull and bright colors, dresses and tuxedos, silk and velvet. They all looked so intimidating.  
"Jack, don't worry – they're so shallow, so bland, so plain . . . they can't hold a candle to you –"  
He shot her a smoldering, curious look and, damnit, she felt her cheeks heat up. Her own heartbeat started thundering.  
She was saved from the embarrassment of the moment by Cal, of all people, who waved her over to the table they would be dining at. She watched as Jack tried to recognize all of the people.  
First, he made it over to the Countess. He must have seen something in her, for his eyes held sympathy. Rose made polite introductions as he kissed the older woman's hand.  
The Countess of Rothes was obviously charmed by Mr. Dawson, and she blushed a deep shade of red when Jack lightly kissed her hand. He has that affect on everybody, Rose thought, amused.  
With stunning and yet mocking politeness, Jack swept back a chair for Rose to sit in. Cal never did this, but seeing the beautiful smile Rose beamed at Jack, she could see Jack's insides melt. He blushed, a handsome, adorable, boyish rosy shade coming into his cheeks. She giggled as he tripped backwards into his seat.  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
Suddenly, without warning, pain returned to Rose's head. She was blinded by the astonishing pang of it. Her body was throbbing with the desperate hurt. In her blanket of horror and grief, she welcomed suffering, praying for more. More to take away her inner anguish, to distract her from the misery that was driving recklessly through her frozen blood.  
Through her eyelids, something green was burning . . . flickering . . . trying to pierce her like the knife that was already tearing her insides. She tried to block out the light. She would rather drown in darkness.  
Against her will, her eyes seared open and the bitter wind and sting of salt greeted them immediately.  
She saw a man standing above her. His officer's cap was still on . . . he seemed so desperate for rescue.  
What was there to be rescued for?  
He was waving a green flare, allowing the silver smoke to swirl from the torch and burn into the sky that was still sprinkled with stars. Even they seemed duller now, as if they had wept away their sparkle. She remembered how bright they had seemed before the iceberg, before her life began and so abruptly ended. Her soul was gone and all that was left was her body, empty.  
A lamp was thrown next to her. In bold red letters it proudly proclaimed, "Titanic." She could still recall how amazed everyone had been, how Titanic had been goddess of the sea and ruler of the world. How all had marveled at her size . . . her luxury . . . stability . . . strength . . .  
And now it was all gone. Everything.  
It is unsinkable; God Himself could not sink this ship –  
She wanted to scream, to weep in her anguish and sorrow and pain, because she was alone again. For just three days she had felt free, finally. But Jack had disappeared, and she was forever lonely.  
She could feel only the horrible, white-hot hate towards herself, the desire to die. She didn't even deserve to die. She deserved to be put through this torture.  
It had seemed so much like a fairytale, she decided now. The sunset, the drawing, the car – his tender, calloused hands treasuring her like no other had done. So unreal . . . she must have known it wouldn't last.  
She could still feel him from her dream that had been her memory. She could still feel his warm breath on her skin when he leaned close to whisper to her. She could still feel the starch of his jacket and the affection in his eyes.  
The oars were dipping quietly in the silent sea. She could not hear the officer shouting over her, his voice echoing across the icy emptiness. The only thing she could listen to was the droplets of ocean falling in crystal drops from the wood like the whole world was in mourning.  
Like a wounded, dying animal, she heard the shrieks inside of her, from her heart. Yet they would not transfer from her lips. They seemed so unearthly, so full of despair, so full of everything she was now.  
But the tears would not come. The pain would not wash away. And Rose, the once beautiful, fiery Rose, was a ruined and trampled on flower, robbed of everything but hate and misery.  
She did not notice as pink and orange stained the black-blue sky.  
For in the field of ashes and ice, the sun had disappeared and would never rise again. 


	20. Forever Reaching

**Chapter twenty! This was a part where I had to completely branch from the movie since, obviously, Jack was not there to feel these things. So review on this one especially ( .**  
  
Jack didn't call it sleep. He was physically awake. He could feel cold, damp wood hit his back as he was transferred into another boat. He could see a man hovering above him, tucking furs and blankets around his body.  
Yet, at the same time, he was completely unaware of what was going on around him. It just didn't matter anymore. Who was he to care about his own comfort or emotions?  
He was being haunted by a dream even though he was not asleep. Beyond physical vision, he could see her – a celestial, heavenly being. Her curls poured like fiery water down her back, past the beautiful arches of her delicate neck. It seemed as if she were draped in spirit and soul, something that could not be captured on paper. Her eyes were clothed in emeralds and sapphires, shining with laughter.  
And then all would turn black. The scarlet hair would become colorless and frozen. The radiating white beauty would fade like fall leaves, the eyes would change into lifeless orbs.  
He wanted to scream out her name, but he was so unworthy to allow the precious word to pass through his icy lips.  
He tried not to think. He tried to just empty his mind, to become nothing but body. However, his brain refused, demanding that he remember, that he muse, that he feel.  
Above him, the sky was like ink, painting everything except the hazy edges of the horizon, blue from water. Stars were strewn almost carelessly over the blackness of total night.  
He could remember another night, a night when destiny collided with expectations, a night when freedom was unlocked and allowed to set flame to two hearts which had been burning underneath for so long. A night when love was more important than consequences, a night when eternity was there and then and forever caged in two people, causing two separate beings to suddenly merge and become two individuals, but one hope, one dream, one passion. A night when soul and spirit were unleashed to do their wonders.  
It was this same night.  
It seemed so long ago, through miles of tears and blood and pain, but somehow he unearthed a stained memory of blue waves being transformed into a sea of melted gold, rippling underneath a sky set on fire by a fading sun, in shades of orange and yellow and red and purple. He had been so nervous. His heart had been throwing itself against his ribs, trying to leap out of his body and join with hers. Almost as if he had been waiting since his birth, he had been burning with a desire as real and tangible as the girl he was holding.  
And now that girl had been transformed into a woman, forced to blossom so early because of the roaring fires and silent ice of love and pain, of grief and anguish and tenderness.  
But as the wind blows over the ocean, she had gone, leaving an aching hole in his heart which would never mend.  
He remembered seeing her with Cal, the two moving away from him the night of her suicide attempt. Wrapped in a blanket with tear tracks down her cheeks, she looked so innocent and beautiful, but so tortured and exposed. The moment her fiancée touched her, she instantly stiffened, became less of the Rose he had just met and more of the cold steel that Cal made.  
Caledon Hockley himself was enough to make her wither into a dying flower, falling petal by petal. His eyes were so dead and so cold, unsympathetic, unwavering, uncaring. His empty smile was like poison.  
Jack had seen it the moment they had met. The moment Cal rushed up to him, cursing and shoving. The moment their eyes locked. The moment Mr. Hockley looked at Rose.  
Oh God, he'd do anything to hold her again. He would drown in his own blood just to stroke her skin for a second, to kiss those soft, ripe lips, to tease his fingertips across her neckline. They had had so little time; she had experienced no true life.  
It was beyond pain, what he felt right now. It went deeper than anguish or grief or torture or suffering. He didn't know what it was, but it terrified him. It had such power over him that he shook with hate to himself and he realized something.  
  
Jack Dawson had forever changed.  
He didn't know who he was anymore. Everything had been perfect eight hours ago – absolute paradise, bliss, heaven. He was the rough-around-the- edges guy who the graceful-angel-from-above had chosen to be with forever. And he had fallen in love for the first and last time.  
He still had that emotion, he suddenly realized, shocked. Whenever he thought of her, past his overwhelming hurt, his stomach dropped about three feet, his heart thudded, he felt lightheaded, and his body burned. He would always love her, always, even though he was transforming into a beast who could feel nothing. Even in the numbness of the disaster, even in his fervent prayers for his death, even as he cursed his own name, he loved her. He loved her so much that all other emotions froze when he thought of her. For just a split second everything felt alright. He loved her so much that he could feel the perfect curves of her beautiful body in his arms, hear her silvery laugh twisting through the air. Damn it, he loved her.  
He could never forgive himself for what had happened to his Rose. Everything seemed so bleak, that he hadn't yet realized that there were still days ahead – that morning would break, that a new day would bloom. Because for him, all of time had stopped in one swift moment, in one iceberg, and it was forever trapped in one person.  
Everything was his fault. He was a disgrace to the world. He felt no better than the creatures crawling over the ocean floor.  
Suddenly, images of Rose DeWitt-Bukater on that same ocean floor caused him to loose control.  
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" He didn't notice he was shouting out loud, couldn't hear himself, couldn't feel the blast of pain in his frozen throat as a result. "You jump, I jump!" He yelled out, oblivious to the men turning and looking at him, shocked. "How in the hell did I let this happen? Oh God, I hate myself. I hate myself! I just want to die . . . It's so cold! She was depending on me! I did this to her, I did it! And somehow, damn it, I survived!" All of the sudden he hated himself so fiercely he was clawing at his chest in a rage, trying to hurt himself, to tear himself apart, to rip out the heart that was thudding so much pain into the rest of his blood. "I'm no better than that son of a bitch . . . God, Rose, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! My Rose!"  
Two hands were grabbing at him, trying to restrain him, but in his madness he was stronger and he continued to simply scream, his shrieks echoing cross the night. The shrieks fell into murmurs of her name, the name which tasted bitter because of his disgustingness.  
"Rose," he whispered as four more stokers finally succeeded in pinning him down, "I love you. Please . . . I love you."  
The tears kept swimming from his eyes but they did nothing to ease his pain. All of the water that had so violently taken anything and everything from him had merged into his body, and the tears were like tears of the sea. He was freezing on the inside.  
He had no will to live anymore. It was gone with the waves, gone with this unimaginable cold, gone with the Queen of all Queens beneath all humanity.  
It seemed as if Titanic had taken more than he had to give.  
"Bloody hell, mate," a thick, bearded man wrapped in more furs, coats, and blankets than Jack had seen in his lifetime muttered, "What is goin' on with you?"  
Ever so slowly, Jack raised his eyes to the man's face. They held none of their usual warmth or compassion, but were filled with more horrors than a person should have to see in centuries. He felt so distant, already almost gone. Tonight he had lost his life and been forced to live with just a body. He could see her form in the back of his foggy memories, could feel her shy and bold responses to his demanding and tender kisses.  
"I . . . lost . . ." He struggled, suddenly absent of any means to require strength. "My . . . life . . . and . . . my . . . Rose . . ." He had stopped sobbing. Somehow, he wished he could again. Maybe he could feel human just one more time.  
"We all lost lots. But you don't see us fallin' into pieces, do ya? We can't at a time like this. We have to stay together, not fall apart. Ya know that, right?" The man stared keenly into Jack's face, studying for an answer. The daggers of hate and vengeance shot back at him made him regret his question. Such pain swirled in his eyes . . .  
"When . . . I . . . you don't . . . understand . . ."Jack broke off, not able to go on. There was no point in going on. He didn't notice as the man moved away, shaking his head and muttering.  
Hope was past him now. Rose was his hope, his wish, his dream, his horizon. And now that she had faded away, his goals and reasons for living had too.  
They had been the seeds of such a promising future – soulmates, nothing less. She was so stunning and fiery and beautiful . . . they would have gone without knowing where they where going, just moved, just been together. They could have had children, a family . . .  
Never again would he love someone. Never again would he truly wake up. For a story was spilled over the icy North Atlantic Ocean, a story as black as the waves themselves and yet sparkling with sunshine. A story of two people becoming one love.  
He would never forgive himself. Jack had known that bitter disappointments lay with great triumphs, but he had lost his heart and soul and spirit with Rose DeWitt-Bukater. She deserved so much better, so much more, than anyone in this world could ever give her. If only he had stayed awake, if only . . .  
So many "if only"s.  
Then something positively ripped through him. It stunned him more than any physical pain could bring. It wouldn't end and he was left breathless as it continued to drive through his blood.  
He hadn't told her he loved her.  
How could he not have told her how much he loved her? It was impossible to explain, it was not words more than emotions . . . the rippling, painful, fluttering sensation that danced in the pit of his stomach, the knocking out of his breath whenever he looked at her, the light smile even the mention of her name could bring, the things she had taught him in just one day . . .  
What it all came down to was that Rose DeWitt-Bukater was the air he breathed and the water that quenched his thirst, the dove that unlocked his soul and inspired him to do the magical wonders he was meant to do.  
She was his angel.  
And without her, he would die.  
Moonlight made pale patterns on the black surface of the sea, which now lapped calmly past the lifeboat, as if nothing had happened.  
How dare you? Jack inwardly cried at the Atlantic, which had taken his emotions and love and heart. How dare you?! It was so cold, so cold . . . you took so much . . . you hurt so many.  
He closed his eyes tighter and swallowed as, like a foggy memory, the picture of Titanic stark against the sky lit into his mind. The screams . . . the screams that unleashed Hell to roam Earth for just a few sparse seconds . . .  
It was numbingly cold, even out of the water. He could feel nothing, but at the same time pain was intensified by grief and he felt everything.  
  
Everyone was gone. He knew that Fabrizio and Tommy had not survived. He would have died without the determination he had been structured with for Rose. This added to his guilt. He felt that his friend's deaths were his fault, especially Fabrizio's.  
Jack could remember the Italian's eyes lighting vividly with excitement when he grabbed the two tickets from the poker table, dancing and shouting and praising God. His destiny had truly been in America. He had deserved to arrive, to mold, to change, to build. He had wanted it so bad – he had wanted it ever since Jack had met him.  
That first day of their friendship, he had said that sentence that hurt him so much now –  
"I'll get ya to America. Come hell or high water, I'll get ya there."  
The high waters and hell had come, and Jack had failed. He had let his best friend down, down into the icy blackness of a world that would never be penetrated by light.  
They had all been so innocent, so undeserving of the punishment they received, and he would never live through it. How could he? There was no more heart left of his to break. When he thought of Rose he almost killed himself. She had been so fragile and fresh to the life that she was opening to, like a dew drop on a flower petal. Ever so gently she had been moving into his world until a passion that burned like fire destroyed any notion of holding back. And when he had made love to her . . . with her . . . he had known that nothing would ever be the same, that they were undoubtedly soulmates, that he would go through anything to reach her.  
He tried to block the foggy memories with his pain, but he couldn't keep them back any more than he could reverse time. The steam had made sweat gather on his skin, but he hadn't noticed. Everything except Rose had faded from his mind and body. He had tried to so tenderly treasure her, and he prayed he had succeeded.  
He knew that he was in denial, that he hadn't faced the icy and brutal reality that lay with the dark waves and cold Atlantic, but he didn't care. He didn't think he could face it – now or ever. The sinking had flashed by in seemingly moments and days all at the same time. He had been exposed to more raw human anguish and emotion than anyone ever had in a lifetime.  
And it was all because of her that he had felt it. He loved her with an amazing love, a love that had taken seconds to ignite and would take eternities to diminish.  
Dawn rose quickly in the frozen North. He saw the edges of the horizon painted with the blush color that the sky always was on promising mornings, pink tinted with orange and gold, like some beautiful work of art that he could never master.  
Now he knew the truth. There was no horizon – it was just an illusion, a fantasy, a trick to inspire. Nothing more. There was just vast black despair and nothingness where everyone said dreams lay. His horizon had vanished in a breath, and he would never get it back.  
Whether his eyes were open or closed, whether he was awake or asleep, all he could see was a face like a ghost in his mind, so beautiful the pain deep inside him only flamed worse, like a white-hot knife lodged into his ribs. A complexion so creamy, white, smooth, and unsoiled that he trembled with fear when he touched it, afraid to ruin her. Eyes carrying that haunted expression, laced under secrets and lies and cages and pain, wearing a sheen color that sparkled like thousands of jewels, in all shades of blues and greens. Hair that cascaded down a perfectly shaped torso, neat and wild fiery curls, so silky and scented like rose water. Lips that were ripe and full, begging to be kissed, blood-red and hungrily probing his own. Such beauty was only heightened by the inner spirit that she carried inside of her. And he would always be reaching, grasping, trying to find his way through emotional turmoil to Rose, but he would never hold his love again.  
She had fit so perfectly in his arms, he remembered now, like he had been molded from birth to hold her to him, to engulf her body with his own. He had felt warm when he held her, no matter where he was or had been. He had felt like everything would be fine if only they could stay frozen in a moment forever. And now . . . now, they were truly frozen in a moment forever, the Jack she had known with the Rose she had been, trapped behind a monument of ice.  
He was no longer an artist who drew pure truth and beauty, who was simply a messenger from life to paper. Now, his sketches would forever be dark and horror-filled. His hands no longer buzzed with the need to grasp charcoal, but his whole being buzzed with the need for her, for that girl, that woman, who had taken control and then let go of his life.  
For the first time, he remembered her promise. Her voice had sounded so genuine, so trusting, so truthful. "I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go . . . "  
It wasn't her fault, he reminded himself bitterly. You left her, Dawson, you did. She tried to keep to her promise and you abandoned her when she needed you. It should have been you. Not her.  
What hurt most was how desperately helpless he was. He could do nothing. The massacre of hundreds had ended, and yet it had just begun for all of the survivors. He could do nothing to bring her back. He could not save her anymore. He was aching to kiss her, to probe her lips into hot wires, to feel that burning passion deep in the pit of his soul.  
Of course, it was all lost now, lost in a place he would never be able to find, lost with an emotion that would never return to him. He closed his eyes, feeling the sting of salty air, water, and tears rub against the inside of his eyelids. His overlong blonde hair was still hanging in icicles and frozen to his scalp. His face was ghostly white and drawn. He knew he looked like Death itself. Good. That's what he felt like.  
Every time he banished one from his mind, another appeared. When he tore Rose from his thoughts, Fabrizio was there, then Tommy, then Cora, then Rose again . . . always, always, always Rose. Even when he focused on something else she was there. He tried to sleep, but could not. Instead, parts of his past were drawn from his memory and displayed visually in his brain. He could no longer fight it. Finally, his strength vanished and the memory tore down the barrier of protection and ravaged his thoughts.  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
Why couldn't he get Rose DeWitt-Bukater out of his mind? He hardly knew her name, much less her – but damn it, she was all Jack could concentrate on. Her nervous, anxious laugh, that hidden, haunted look in her jeweled eyes, her pure skin, her windblown scarlet curls, her beautiful voice, and her terror kept playing like a moving picture in his thoughts. Everything about her was so ripe and fresh and new, but so wasted and hurt and betrayed. She was a mystery – one he was desperately trying to figure out.  
He was vaguely aware of Fabrizio murmuring something in that melodic, gentle way of his, and Tommy boisterously seconding it. One of them, most likely the latter, took a long swig of ice-cold beer and there was silence. The edge of Jack's conscious was playing that angel to his heart. He remembered the strange feeling she gave off, like the breeze confined to a glass box, to be looked at but never touched, never loved, never free like she was made to be.  
"What is in the matter with yourself?" Fabrizio suddenly boomed, concerned for his best friend for three years. "You do not comment, do not answer – is it a' anger?"  
Jack leaned back in his chair, remembering that he had been engaged in a pointless, no-bet poker game. His beat-up cards lay face down in his palm. He blandly looked at the peeling numbers printed in the upper left corner. "Nah, Fabri, just preoccupied is all."  
Tommy arched an eyebrow as if asking, "With what?" At the same time, Fabrizio muttered, "I am not familiar with this a' pre-occ-u-pied." His eyes turned dark with frustration at his limited, accented English. He banged his cards on the table and resignedly, half-heartedly sipped his beer.  
"I'm just thinkin' about someone else."  
Although a light of understanding brightened Fabri's countenance, Tommy's curiosity reached the boiling point. He leaned closer to Jack and rumbled, "Alright, boyo, who is she?"  
How did he know these things? Jack sighed and shook his head, brushing a strand of hanging hair out of his eyes, as though it was not important. But he did not notice that he had taken a free piece of paper from his portfolio and had been absent-mindedly sketching the Rose he had saw, that terror-streaked, truth-hungry, love-needing Rose that he had saved and maybe banished to a lifetime of nights like that one, of feeling there was no where to go but down.  
Pointedly, Tommy glanced down at it as Fabrizio thumbed through Jack's sketches, interested in the newer ones. He saw his friend trace his calloused, bold thumb along the charcoal marks on the drawing of Cora and her father that Jack had done yesterday. Fabri let out a sharp exhale of breath, his eyes searching for that hidden meaning that always lurked in Jack's drawings, the meaning of humanity. He seemed to find it, for his expression of surprise, satisfaction, and wonder grew.  
"Just . . . an angel . . ." Jack murmured, puzzled. "A beautiful angel that is trapped on Earth and can't get back to heaven . . ."  
Tommy smiled, amused. Jack didn't understand what he was smiling at.  
  
"Who've you fallen for, lad?"  
Fallen for? How could he have fallen for her in ten minutes? Yet she possessed something he admired, but fallen for . . . All he could see was her inner and outer beauty, the very core of his thoughts and the very core of her life. All he could feel was her cold, clammy, creamy hand in his own, connecting an unspoken bond of trust in between two people, the single golden thread that wound them together. All he could smell was her soft, rosewater scent – a scent heightened by that hate and fear she felt.  
Maybe he had fallen for her.  
He shook his head slightly as Tommy nodded, his grin growing. "Yeah, boyo . . . You have it bad . . ."  
Fabrizio's warm, melting dark eyes flickered back and forth from the Irishman to Jack, and he suddenly seemed to get something. "A girl! You're in love with a girl!" His smile stretched across his face as Tommy rolled his eyes. "Ah, don't be worrying. You always be a' getting' the women. They can't seem to keep their about-to-be-broken hearts when Mr. Dawson is around." His cheeks were lit with teasing, but Jack just sighed and leaned back in his chair.  
"Yeah, Fabri, well that's the thing. I can't get this girl." His azure eyes turned icy as he remembered his horror at seeing the sleek- haired, steel-gazed, older man dressed in a starched suit strutting up to him, shoving and cursing and spitting. Then, he still burned with his more mortified disgust when he saw the same man wrapping his arms around Rose in an almost fatherly manner to lead her inside. She was taken. She had a fiancée. He had seen the rock on her finger and the fear in her eyes when that man walked up to her. It didn't have to be like that!  
Her eyes had mirrored exactly what he wanted to free her from – that horrible feeling of bondage and slavery amidst the jewels and silk of her class. At the same time he knew he shouldn't be that involved, that he would never see her again.  
It was this that hurt him more than anything. He would never get a chance to show her life and love and laughter, never get a chance to cut her away from her ropes, never get a chance to witness her freedom. He already felt as if he would die if he couldn't gaze upon her complex self again. He knew that he saw something about her no one else could see – past that amazing beauty he could see a monster thrashing inside of her, causing her heart to be in the pain of bloody death throes. He could see her spirit wilting and being dried of the array of colors that existed inside her soul. And most of all, he could feel something in him building up until it burned against his chest. He exhaled audibly as he realized it – passion.  
"Jack . . . is this the a' Rose you have been speaking to me about last night?" Fabrizio asked gently. Jack almost didn't notice his voice – but only almost. When he did, he was jarred back into the world of reality.  
"Rose . . ." He let the name roll over his tongue like a heavenly word that he hadn't quite grasped the meaning of. Tommy, however, started.  
  
"What girl named Rose?" He asked eagerly, leaning forward and taking a long drag on his cigarette. To Jack, he seemed more and more interesting each time they had a conversation – truly a good listener, but also a hotheaded man with temper to push back mountains. America could use more people like him.  
But Jack didn't want to explain. He didn't feel able to relate the story again. It would just confuse him more, just make him want to know her better, just know that he couldn't even see her again.  
He laid his head back and swatted a few spare strands of blonde hair out of his eyes. Everything was so upside down in his life now. Had it really taken just one smoke, just one chance, just one look . . . ?  
Her image wouldn't leave him. It was as if the ghost of her once- present joy had decided to haunt him, to force him to care, to force him to want and need. Rose . . . Rose DeWitt-Bukater . . .  
To some, if they had seen the encounter they would have called Jack a hero. He felt more like a coward, blinding his face from the dimming light of a Rose, of a beauty and a spirit that was limp and dying, trying to block his ears from a fateful cry for help, attempting to ignore the ragged and slowing breathes of someone on the deathbed of true life.  
He knew that it would take miracles to ever lay eyes on that angel again, much less talk to her. But somehow, when they had spoken, when he had first seen her, electric sparks had flew, social barriers had crashed down, leaving a path to each other, a path that sparkled with stars and magic, a path he wanted to explore. Then reality came and the path disappeared beneath the brambles of class.  
"Jack . . . we all fall in love . . ." Fabrizio murmured, watching him with warm, understanding eyes. "When one says they will not ever a'fall in love, they are mistaken. Everyone falls in the love, it just depends on how we a'use it. We can't control the love or the time, Jack; we can a'control the actions we take." Jack turned to look at him, digesting the simple truth in the words spoken by his friend. Tommy grinned and puffed on his cigarette, watching the American's reaction.  
Jack opened his mouth to respond, to try to convince himself he was not in love, that he couldn't be, but the two people across from him became stone silent. Their eyes unfocused, their hands and cards dropped, and their cheeks became pale and slacked. Something or someone caught everyone's eye. Fabri swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Tommy's jaw dropped so the cigarette fell from his lips. Both were staring behind him.  
Bemused, Jack turned in his chair, wanting to know what so shocked the Irishman and Italian. The last thing he was conscious of hearing was his chair squeak as he shifted his weight and the strange, hushed silence. Everything became quiet as he focused. And then all of the sudden his breathing accelerated, his pulse thundered, his blue eyes turned smoky with emotion, and he knew the depth and complexity of his true feelings.  
He didn't recognize her at first. There was a celestial being standing in the doorway from above, streams of golden sunlight falling around her and bathing her in a heavenly glow like a Princess of God. She carried with her the burden of worlds, a burden that weighed her down but in huge strides completely failed to dampen her fresh beauty. Her hair was awash with bronze, like melted precious metal, crowning her head with a wreath of burnt stars. Her skin glimmered with clear, cool water. Her gown was made of the softest, finest golden fabric, cascading down her slender and supple body. Her lips were now blood-red and ripe, begging for love that they so desperately deserved. She seemed wrapped in the glory of all Times, past, present, and future. He wanted to reach out to touch her, but was terrified that she would vanish in the delicateness of the beautiful creation she was molded into, vanish in the sparkle of gems and light. Everything stood still until Jack could hear nothing but this Being's breathing, a sound so divine and holy that he was caught in its whispering silence so much like a melodic breeze – in and out, in and out. Confusion painted this creature's eyes, eyes that spoke so much of pain and starvation, of blooming and wilting. It was through those eyes that Jack recognized her. Still they swirled in all their blue-green beauty, taking the colors and shine from emeralds and sapphires but like pathways of water to her soul. The terrified, suicidal, desperate-to-be-saved Rose had all but disappeared under the graceful, still beautiful, dignified Rose he saw now. The real Rose still left traces of herself on her cover-up, burnings of a spirit so true and real that Jack felt scorched by the heat of her heart.  
She looked around as if searching for someone, and in that moment Jack remembered that she, a first-class goddess, was down in the third class general room. He tried to make himself stand, but his legs wouldn't move. They seemed to have melted under the gorgeous gaze of that girl. Finally, he swept a remaining strand of hair back and managed to pull himself shakily to his feet. He could feel Fabrizio's and Tommy's gazes boring into his back as Rose's face turned into a shimmering, comely smile. He could feel her full lips beckoning to him and fought to restrain himself.  
"Jack!" She exclaimed brightly, her entire expression brightening when she studied him further. Just hearing her say his name made him act normally again, for her. He almost had it under control when she started to move toward him.  
She was in such a hurry to get to him that she wasn't paying attention to where she was going. She tripped on a chair leg and began to fall to the ground, her face not even having enough time to register shock.  
Immediately, without thinking, Jack's arms moved to catch her. She landed safely against his chest, looking up into his face. For a moment she stared at him in wonder, and then her cheeks pinked in an unmistakable, wonderful blush. His heart thudded and he could hardly breathe. As much as he tried to ignore the soft curves of her amazing body, he could not ignore the way she fit so tenderly and perfectly against himself, filling in every space between them. Her scent was soft and pale, like rosewater, and so seducing that he had to in the briefest moment close his eyes as not to shower her face with kisses.  
"Are you alright, Rose?" He asked, a grin masking his emotions on the inside. He couldn't help it anyway – even when he simply glanced at her, a smile spread on his face. She giggled now and simply lay in his arms for a moment. He let her be still, enjoying every delicious second as long as it lasted. And then the daydream was over. As conversation slowly resumed in the general room she stood an inch from him, her body slightly touching his chest. His knees almost buckled as he brushed off her torso and arms. She laughed and took his hand.  
"Jack, may I take the liberty of requiring a private audience with you?" She asked, almost in a whisper, her words so formal that Jack had to work quickly through them. She brushed a red curl out of her eye, looking at him questioningly.  
His breathing became shallow as Tommy cleared his throat behind him. Jack answered immediately, brain pounding. "Rose, you needn't ask. Lead the way, my lady." He dipped into an exaggerated bow. She giggled again and Jack put his hand on the small of her back to guide her out. She seemed to melt underneath his fingertips, like a pool of warm water. At first she stiffened, and then he felt her lean back into his hand. It was the most amazing sensation he had ever felt, and he trembled openly upon it. He turned around quickly and raised his eyebrow at Fabri, who shrugged and motioned him to hurry behind Rose.  
As they climbed the stairs, she was again cloaked in shafts of sunlight, small patterns dancing in their golden glory on her gown. She adjusted the delicate necklace at the nape of her neck as he stared at her, transfixed by her mysterious beauty. Her curls that were drenched in the blood of her pain were picked up by the sea gusts, framing her arched face in a dance of their own. He felt those butterflies in his stomach again and he blushed deeply as she stared back at him. They stood like this for awhile, lost in the other's gaze, trying to grasp a key to unlock the wall between them, to open a door to their emotions. But none could be found. He started to move closer as she slowly turned to go up on deck, and . . .  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
No. No more pain. Jack couldn't take it anymore. His insides were bursting against their stitches of ignorance and confusion . . . he was so, so confused. So, so hurt . . .  
He would always be reaching for her like one reached for the wind, closing their fist but getting nothing, feeling the haunting of a breeze, a memory, buried beneath the tears that would not stop flowing, covered by the rocks of regret and burdens. Love had been born and was now murdered; lying in a lake of its blood, drowning Jack in the beauty that had once been his but was now nothing but a ghost.  
He could hear her voice, that exotic and unknown mixture of utter joy and intense longing, of starvation and hurt. He tried to block it out, tried to vanish it from his mind, but it was as if an echo of her were right next to him, murmuring the sweet sayings that only she and he knew the meanings of.  
"Where to, miss?"  
"To the stars . . ."  
"Nervous?"  
"No . . . Put your hands on me, Jack."  
Every scene raced through his head, leaving him bruised and weary on the floor of his pain. The blackness had not faded from his gaze. His skin was pale. His eyes which had once been full of human emotion and warmth had instead soaked in the ice which they had gazed upon.  
"Jack! This is where we first met!"  
"Trust me!"  
"I trust you!"  
Her innocence, her sweet, pure, innocence, had been lost in that game of trust . . . It was all his fault. Damn it! She had trusted him, trusted him with a trust so deeply that he couldn't understand it anymore, trusted him with her life and soul. And he had lost it. Trust was nothing anymore. Love was gone. He had nothing, he was nothing, he would get nothing. Without his Rose, his world was nothing.  
One day, he knew, he would have to come face to face with the fact that she was dead and that she couldn't come back. But he still expected to feel her warm weight in his arms, or smell that sweet scent of rosewater, a scent that was forever buried with salt and sea. Her hair, those dancing tendrils of red, was frozen and still. Her spirit that burned with a roaring flame was smoldered.  
And he was left, reaching and reaching for her through the black and death that surrounded this night, sifting through blood and tears, trying to find her, but only left with the final wisps of smoke from that spirit. 


	21. The Terror of Grace

**Sorry it was a month before I updated. Well, here it is. Reviews please! Thanks for all the support I've received so far. It means a lot while I'm writing, let me tell you**  
  
Across the sky glowing like orange embers, Rose's pain, grief, and guilt was painted in a thousand pictures. She tried to block it out but it was like water against a wall . . . it just pressured harder, hurting more, and angrily whirled through her spirit, ravaging heart and soul with every breath she took.  
It was the sort of pain that exceeded all physical expectations. It had completely torn the foundations of her new life from her, taken the very being from her body. Something about it made all humanity stop, all of everything vanish. Time was frozen, eras were frozen, emotions were frozen – all into the heart-rending mountain of love and pit of despair. Was it truly a sin to feel, at one point in your life, that you didn't have to live for yourself, that you could live for someone else?  
Jack . . . She remembered everything about him, everything – the way his eyes danced when he drew, the way his sideways, boyish grin made her heart melt into a silver lake. There was something about him that had been so pure, so right, so true . . . so . . . so Jack Dawson.  
She tried to ignore the new feelings that were welling up inside her, but she couldn't. Somehow she felt cheated and betrayed. The sea had promised her such a future – and then in that ripping, timeless way had torn it away from her before she could take a breath.  
Now her breaths didn't matter. Each one hurt like a stone on her chest, but she didn't feel it. She was rasping for life, but she didn't want to. She wasn't being haunted by demons. She was being haunted by Satan himself, the deceiver, Lucifer, the traitor.  
Did you really have to leave me? I'm not ready to be alone, I can't stand by myself. I'm falling and falling into this goddamn blackness and the worst part is . . . I can feel you, Jack . . . and then you're gone. I can't see you, but I can feel you. In my dreams I can feel you. And all of the sudden you leave me all over again in this constant session of pain and guilt . . . Jack, save me. Please save me. Before, I didn't want to be saved but you saw through me . . . save me again.  
Somehow she felt that whisper of a prayer drop from her soul and drain across the lonely Atlantic. No one could hear her cries. No one could feel her anguish. No one could ever understand the suffering inflicted upon her. No one could ever experience such deep, deep cold – a cold that sliced through her body like a melting knife, a cold that swirled in frost around her and gripped her heart with a steel grip of ice.  
The waves crisscrossed in an ancient silky pattern, colored with melted blue tears and frozen green promises. They silently lapped on the boat, making whispers of desire from her Jack to his Rose. These whispers were lost in time, were driven away from the dying flower before she reached them. Each time the sounds of love were taken from her, a petal floated to the ground of humanity, leaving her as nothing but a shaking, fragile stem, brittle from ice and the weight of torture.  
She wanted to beg to be sheltered from the true world, from this world of such utter terror and pain. Jack had shown her the joy, the happiness, the freedom . . . but he had left out terror and pain. The loneliness, the bitter truth, the black fear. Everything that she had considered nonexistent merely hours ago was all that surrounded her, wrapping her soul like a thick blanket, squeezing harder and harder at the last life she had in her, suffocating her to death.  
Isn't this what Jack fought to save me from? This constant feeling of suffocation, of draining, of no hope? And now here I am all over again, alone, so, so alone . . .  
It came like a lightning flash of evil. She began to fervently wish she had never met Jack Dawson, never met the man who had been destined for her, who was her fate, who was her very breath. She inwardly yearned that she had never seen him smile, seen the beautiful bare story of death and life itself in his exotic blue eyes, felt her stomach take wing when he laughed. She wanted to never have kissed him and experienced that once-in- a-lifetime emotion that told her this love was for eternity and she was his for all universes to come. She regretted ever falling in unimaginable, fiery, amazing, stark, truthful love.  
Her tears finally spilled over, dripping down her cheeks, filled with the cold suffering of remorse, falling with the white hot slicing hurt of loss and betrayal. Each one stung her cheek and imprinted her spirit, crying desperately for a savior that had been forever silenced beneath power and might that overshadowed herself. The tears' voices wound in the air around her, shrieking and screaming a million different meanings but only one word – Jack.  
Desperately, she knew that she had to stop the bleeding from her soul. Her blood pooled around her, invisible but leading her to the door of death all the same. She was lost, wanting to forget and wanting to die. Before she could think, she heard only one thing – "No more".  
She sunk into a craze of indescribable grief and fury, a fury that suddenly burst like a red flame. Frantically, she could feel her heart closing, trying to shut itself against the still alive passion of a now dead man. Her soft sobbing turned to loud, mournful weeping as she clicked the key of her insides, locking her emotions away from Jack Dawson. Something inside of her burned with a pain that exceeded anything she had felt yet. She was being torn by her decision, by the sacrifice of a being to a lesser person. Everything began to wave in her vision and she suddenly screamed aloud, letting the sound fall across the sea – the beautiful, deceiving, crazy, wild Atlantic that had condemned her to a death worse than she knew existed.  
"No!" She shrieked, not caring who heard. "I can't do it!" For in the corner of her mind, she had seen his reaction to her selfish act of closure. He simply stared at her, showing her the awful thing she had done through his haunting eyes, the ugliness of her feelings, the plundered beauty of a Rose that was now nothing but a crumbled brown dust. She couldn't look at herself through another. It hurt too much to see and feel dead tears raining down his eternal face.  
Oh God, Jack, she inwardly sobbed, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I'm doing – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!  
And in her mind's eye, she threw herself at him and felt him hold her. His strong arms closed around her and his scent of work and tears and laughter fulfilled her. She could feel the tickling softness of his breath in her ear as he murmured sweet sayings meant for no one but her, only his Rose. Her skin felt the texture of his limp, overworn white shirt and the soft curves of his lips. They were flying, soaring above Titanic and all of the hell she had raised when she had fallen.  
And it was then that she realized that she could never lock away her smoldering, gentle, and fierce emotions from the one who had created them, breathed life into each feeling again and again. Her thundering pulse subsided into its earlier dying rhythm.  
I'll never desert you.  
Instead, she used the key to lock Jack Dawson, her Jack Dawson, away from the rest of the world, away from this freefall of despair. He would be safe in her heart forever, feeding the flame of her spirit like he had done in life. Somehow, this didn't comfort her as much as she wanted.  
She felt bruised by this love that had left her and passed behind her, torn by this anguish that no human would ever have to face again through the end of time. Her eyes pried open, the once glittering gems reduced to dull, dead orbs that radiated, instead of freedom, entrapment, eyes that had once been so alive but now were nothing but shadows of something that might have been. Her skin was red-rimmed and pale, so pale that she not only took the spirit and pain of a ghost, but the appearance of one.  
"Oars! Careful with the starboard side! Don't damage the lifeboat against the ship!" From directly above Rose, the officer's words seemed to swim from his mouth to the air around her, their sound warped and their meanings meaningless. Ever so slowly, Rose tilted her head up to shift her vision on the object next to her. Her neck screamed in suffering as it moved and her shivering that had yet to cease strengthened. It pounded with the beating of another's heart that had been sewn into her own, with another's pulse that given the rhythm for hers.  
Rising out of the sea was a wall of black hull, rivets pressed together and paint chipped from the damage of salt. The portholes were cranked open and people hung out of some of them, wild hair blowing and eyes wide with horror.  
They know no horror. They know nothing. They have experienced nothing.  
A single smokestack belched cries for deliverance in the air, cries shrouded in the unearthly garb of smoke. On a plate of the ship, in peeling yellow letters, the name was proudly written – "Carpathia."  
Horrifying memories of a ship once a goddess and now a murdered queen thundered into every crevice of her mind and exploded into every corner, until she could find no sanctuary from herself. A jaded glimpse of what had once been Edwardian glory against a black sky, raised till it blocked out the stars, poised to begin its deathly plunge to the ocean depths raided the last rays of hope that she had in her – which had already been so weak there was no point in treasuring them any longer.  
As she forced sobs down her burning, inflamed throat, she could feel another time she had had tears on her cheeks, tears of joy washing away any pain she felt, tears of the gentleness of his hands and the softness of his kiss-swollen lips meeting with hers.  
She was there again, in the moment, in the fiery passion that had enflamed them for what had felt like a second and an eternity all at once. Their eternity.  
But even this eternity had to end and now all she had were shadowy traces of emotions that had burned brightly not even a day ago. Before, a day had seemed to go by so fast, like a scratch mark on the canvas of her life. Now it would never end. She knew that her curse was to be trapped in the sea forever, past death and before death.  
Suddenly broad hands gripped her shoulders, nothing like the soothing, calloused ones of the man that had been the first and last to touch her in a way that made her feel like a lake of warm water. She was forced up. Blurrily, she could barely make out a man pressing a tarnished bottle to her stiff lips. A burning sensation overflowed her mouth.  
The last time something had burned like that was two nights ago, in the whirling of Irish music and the stomping and clapping that chased away all social barriers and left nothing but the beat of the drums matching with the pounding of her heart.  
The hurt that flooded within her at this memory made her immediately spit out the golden liquid. It dripped from the man's thick brown coat and his matching hair. At first, his face contorted into fury, but seeing Rose's pain-filled eyes he set down the bottle and wrapped her blanket tighter around her. Then he turned and hollered something to a crewman on the ship.  
Ladders were unfurled and slings were dropped. She didn't watch as her boat was slowly drained of people who still had their souls and minds. Instead she kept her eyes on the horizon, the circle boiling red with people slain and blood carelessly spilt.  
Her eyes soon unfocused, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. Glimmering with a story of being lost and then being found before she was released, alone, into the destiny of a life that she could not live by herself.  
Suddenly she let out a gasp of shock as the officer himself scooped her up out of the bottom of the boat. She wanted to forever lie on the bottom of that boat. Close to the sea, close to the salt, close to the tears, close to the sweat, close to an eternity that had denied her entrance. Her rigid self control shattered and without warning her body threw itself into convulsions. Her slender, bruised, betrayed form writhed mercilessly in the arms of this weary, death-streaked, guilt-ridden man that was the fifth officer of a queendom forever silenced. She would never let another hold her, even to help her like this, after whom she had loved . . . after him who had treasured her beyond Earth's meaningless jewels, after him who had given her womanhood and freedom, after him who had seen, in everything, something past what anyone else could see without those haunting eyes, those melting ice chips of unbearable blue.  
The sharp heels of her shoes irritated his skin. She saw beads of blood appear on his arm. Her hair, dry and again fiery red with hurt and suffering, spilled down her back as she tried desperately to allow herself to fall into those foreboding black and blue waves. They had taken everything from her. What more was her body?  
She was despairingly laid down into the makeshift sling even as she kicked and fought against her very breath. The canvas was rough against her skin. Ropes were cranked and she was brought up the side of the ship.  
All of the sudden she was hyperventilating. Flashes of blinding light were embedding in her very core, stinging her like lightning. Memories . . . painful, sweet memories . . . last time she was beside a ship . . . being lowered . . . black, black sky, black death, black sea . . . tears . . . little girls, father . . . distress rockets . . . Jack watching . . . eyes boring into hers . . . shame . . . guilt . . . torn apart . . . Cal next to him . . . shower of sparks falling down Jack's form . . . scream from inside . . . love, bursting, overflowing, rendering love . . . stars . . . running . . . slamming of hearts . . . in his arms . . . weeping . . . "We'll think of something . . ."  
The attack was so unexpected that she gripped the fabric sides of the sling so as not to kill herself. The spliced edges were jagged and she held on so tightly that they sliced her fingers in some areas, leaving warm red stains on faded white.  
It was such a relief to hurt herself, to give herself more physical pain, no matter how minor it was. To feel anguish with her body again.  
The scream had been building up for hours. She knew it was coming. Not outwardly. No one would hear her. But like a hurricane it was released into her system, tearing and destroying everything in its path, invading and conquering, its sole goal to inflict as much guilt and sorrow as she could feel in her absent heart.  
She became as limp as a rag doll as the sling crested the railing. Hands were pulling at her, dragging her, just like on Titanic, trying to get something out of her that she didn't have. She was picked up but she had no strength to struggle. Everything was drained from her. She had gone from the only woman Jack saw to the bitter, empty, calloused woman she was now in merely moments. She didn't recognize herself. Her outward beauty had not faded but, inside, a battle was raging like the very flames of hell itself.  
"Do you need to go to the infirmary, miss?" She heard the question clearly, each word delicately pronounced as if the person was afraid of sending her into another seizure of madness. She looked up to see a burly middle-aged man staring cautiously down at her.  
She could feel that she was weak and sore and hurt. For all she knew Death himself was about to take her into his arms. But she didn't care. Right now she needed to be alone . . . alone with her regret and horror and terror and torment . . . alone with her vivid memories that branded her like melting metal . . . alone in the ice-filled, black, cold, lonely heart of that wild Atlantic.  
Her shivering was more noticeable, controlling her body with wrenches that chilled her. But nothing could make her leave those emotions that were brutishly destroying everything love had given her.  
She shook her head, the still icy tendrils of scarlet whisking around her face in the sea breeze with haunting mystery. The man seemed to be weighing something on his mind, whether to make her go or let her be. Finally he must have decided that the pain she had endured was too much to be added to. But he knew next to nothing about it.  
He carried her a ways to the aft portion of the deck, his green eyes flickering about as if trying to do anything but see the absolute agony and inhuman anguish that had flooded like rain into her now tortured soul.  
He set her down in a cold, wooden deck chair, trying to position her to make her comfortable. She didn't move to help him. Comfort was a thing of the past that she couldn't remember. He proceeded to wrap her in a thick steamer blanket, and she knew that even he, in his ignorance, could tell that warmth was what her life depended in. Then suddenly he was gone to try to help others that could never be repaired.  
She sat shivering on the deck of this blaspheming ship, huddled in her guilt, her salty clothes sticking to alabaster skin. And, finally, she knew the nightmares had caught up with her and she had to face them. Finally, she closed her eyes.  
The first thing she saw was another pair of eyes, chips of blue ice that blazed with passion and desire and love. They melted into limpid pools of calming water, flowing with pride and dignity she had never before seen in another human.  
Slowly they faded away, that image of those orbs flanked by skin tanned from the sunshine and hair lightened by work. Suddenly, they were replaced by a Titan in her death throes, screaming in unabridged agony to be spared from such a horrible assassination, shrieking a final prayer to the Maker who promised her doom in those waters she was born to own.  
The screeching of black steel that had been designed to withstand everything but destiny. The careening as human lives were silenced like the wind blowing out a candle. The cries splicing night air and sea peace into havoc, chaos, disaster.  
And then the hands . . . hands that had, only hours before, been warm and tanned and full of life and ardor, stroking, drawing, caressing, probing. Suddenly they were colorless and cold, frozen in ice, in love's blood, to her, waves of lifelessness pulsing where veins had once moved.  
"Miss? Miss? This should warm ya right up . . . drink some."  
Rose's eyes suddenly shot open at this unfamiliar voice, and with the movement came the drenching, spirit-soaking tears, crystals pricking her face with diamond-sharp edges.  
A stewardess stood in front of her with a tray balanced on her raw- worked hands. Brown hair streaked with grey hung in wisps around weary eyes.  
Stunned, Rose could do nothing but watch as the woman held out a chipped mug to her that steamed into the cool, ocean-stained air. When Rose didn't take it, she set it in her lap and moved on, clucking her tongue in pity.  
Fury overwhelmed Rose's heart. She didn't want or need anyone else's sympathy – especially that of someone who hadn't been there, hadn't felt it. She couldn't bear to remind herself what that "it" was.  
In pure instinct she drank the boiling hot liquid – and choked. It was golden broth, simmering on her tongue. She couldn't taste it. Didn't want to taste it. Only wanted a diversion from the feelings that were devouring her.  
Eventually, she set the mug aside, not able to stand the relief that the warmth was bringing her. She deserved none. Not even this hard chair.  
  
She kicked her blanket off of her, not caring about the chill. Somehow she got up, her legs near to buckling. She hadn't walked on her own since before Titanic had plunged. Jack had pulled her, swam with her, held her. Jack . . . his name was the only balm to her hurt that she welcomed.  
In some mystical way she forced herself to stand as steadily as she could, a result of intense shaking. With small, slow, painful steps she inched to the steerage section of the survivors. Where else did she belong? She belonged where he belonged, forever.  
It was a struggle to get down those heavy metal steps into the stern area. A stoker covered in soot, his orange hair tousled and his scent thick with smoke, guided her safely to level deck again. She didn't thank him, didn't look back, but could feel her horror reflected in his own.  
Like the flower of the dead, Rose collapsed to the floor once she had gotten far enough away from the lifeboat unloading area. She wrapped the one thin flannel blanket from the boat she had been in around her, pulling it over the crown of her head like a veil to keep her mind from seeing.  
The screams that surrounded her were almost as horrible as what she had seen in the water. Again and again she heard murderous cries as women were confirmed widows, as their hearts were wrenched apart, as they frantically sought a loved one. A European was trying to describe her husband to a helpless officer, trying to find him, grasping and grasping for someone who wasn't there.  
"There's got to be another passenger list!" The woman pulled her cloak tighter around her, staring at the man like she expected him to save her.  
In turn, his expression fell and was emptied as he looked down at the clipboard again, obviously praying to see who she was looking for, trying to spare her the pain that could destroy her. But such a person was not found. "Mam . . . There's no other list . . . " He trailed off, terrified to break the news openly but filled with guilt at hiding the truth.  
"Well then, maybe he's on another ship!" Doubt and guilt were staring this woman straight in the eyes, black, hard face to black, hard face, death dancing in their dilated pupils, wicked smiles dancing on evil lips.  
The officer shuddered and Rose could tell that what disgusted her disgusted him as well. There were no other ships. These people had prayed and died in vain, without the assistance their screams had called for, neither from Heaven nor Earth.  
"Mam . . . there aren't any more –" He fell silent as the woman interrupted her, silent with respect and mourning.  
"So then there's got to be another passenger list!" She became white as a cloud. Her eyes became empty. Rose almost heard the breath of the Angel of Death as this person's soul and spirit were swept from her trembling body.  
It all happened before anyone could blink or pray or think. There was a loud thud and suddenly the woman lay in a heap on the floor, her shawl blowing in the wind. And Rose knew. She tried to pretend indifference, but she knew. Tears began to flow down her face again.  
The officer cried out and fell to his knees, shaking the latter roughly, grasping at her and trying to force her to sit up. "Help! I need help over here! Oh God . . . why are you doing this? Why?!"  
Although he demanded an answer, he received none. A nurse came and picked up the woman's hand, pressing two fingers to her wrist. Then she let it drop cold and lifeless to the wood.  
Another victim that the sea had managed to grasp lay barren and forsaken in the mound of her despair. With almost businesslike efficiency the nurse quickly retrieved a body bag and closed it over the grey head.  
The officer shook violently and stood, searching wildly around him, trying to get out of this hellhole of staring, black, dull eyes, of ice and sea and salt, of cold.  
Rose turned away and gazed into space, reaching for her Jack to come back to her. And briefly she thought he had. Rough hands caressed her arms. The tickling of sweet nothings fell upon her ears. But then he was gone with a breath of the breeze.  
"Jack!" She screamed, physically grasping into the air, trying to hold onto his shirt, his arm, his heart, anything she could get her hands on. It was too late. He was gone.  
She crumbled inside and huddled closer to the floor, not looking, not hearing the fatherless children weep and shriek for their fathers, not watching the orphans stumble for a home that had vanished. She closed her eyes to the power of the ocean and fell into a lake of her misery, drowning and drowning . . .  
Heavy footsteps broke her out of her entrapment. Immediately her insides jumped into her throat. Even though the person was behind her, she recognized that sound. So proud and pompous were those steps. The heels of dress shoes clicked loudly onto the deck. Starched clothing rustled with each move the person made.  
Those were the sounds that she had dreaded and been terrified of for months. Those sounds had meant the Devil incarcerate was coming to ravage her inside. That the next morning she would have a bruise on her arm from refusing him and dried blood on her lips from fighting and a hurt pride from hardly escaping rape.  
She turned cautiously, trying to shield herself from this person's gaze. Immediately she saw what she feared. Caledon Hockley stood pacing on Carpathia's deck.  
Rage that had been encased in her grief suddenly bubbled to the surface of her brain. Self-control shattered. Anger disappeared and was left with all-consuming, irrational fury, like that of a tornado whipping across a prairie.  
How could life rob her and treat her with such hate and horror? Goddamn it all. The horizon had disappeared beneath the raining evil of April 15, 1912.  
She closed her eyes against brutal pain that overwhelmed her at the thought that Jack hadn't survived but Cal had. That the pure had fallen to the wicked. That her Artiste, her love, her Savior, her soulmate had perished but the cold-blooded killer of freedom had evaded that horror of all horrors with nothing but a tear in his suit sleeve.  
It all came pounding back, the black, black water bubbling over the head she had held to her, the body she had poured herself into, the hands she had given herself too. The spirit that had enflamed her own. She couldn't describe the emotions that were flowing through her. She didn't want to.  
She was, again, handed a decision. A choice that would decide who she was and who she couldn't be. She could easily reenter her life, the life of chains and false promises, the life of stinging pain and counterfeit feelings. The life of money and legalistics.  
It could be so simple. If she could just offer her whole body, soul, mind, heart, and spirit to this man, a man who would crumple them all and throw them away, then she could have her old life back.  
But then she remembered the Rose that had existed before. The suicidal Rose, the girl who had dreaded to wake up. She had prayed to go home to her father. She could still see herself, a face as white as chalk, trembling and shaking so hard she almost fell without wanting to. But Jack had saved her. She would be saved again. No matter what she had done, she didn't deserve that slow, painful death. She did have a choice. She had an option. Jack had showed her that. Above everything else, Jack had showed her that. She would rather starve from food than starve from absence of love, which she now knew in abundance.  
And then she realized something that made a prickly tear wash down her salt crusted face. She wasn't Rose DeWitt-Bukater anymore. She could never be Rose Hockley. She was Jack's Rose. Jack's Rose . . . his flower, his love, his hope.  
All inner conflicts vanished and she turned away, heart pounding, hiding herself from Cal. She heard him leave and then she realized what she had just done.  
She had just unattached herself from Society. She was no longer a member of that group of murderers. No, now the Artist was inside of her, holding her, guiding her. She had just chosen a life that she did not know but had fallen in love with all the same.  
Yes, she thought as her torture pulled her into a restless sleep. I am Jack's Rose. 


	22. Among the Living Dead

This is long! People, review on this one. Haven't been getting a lot lately. I included a flashback – hope you enjoy it!  
  
There would always be enough memories for Jack to drown in. He knew that now. Looking beyond the limit of the time he had spent with that celestial creature, he would always be caught in those few days that she had tormented him in his dreams, haunted him in his waking hours. She would be doing that for the rest of all time.  
Every once and awhile her face would be lost in his mind and he would panic. His breathing became unregulated and his insides seemed to disappear. Like mental war scars, Rose seemed like the very picture of something so terrible and divine wrapped into one being.  
It seemed as if everyone in the boat he was in had given up. Not that he really cared. A little girl wrapped in torn rags shivered in her mother's arms, who every once and awhile forced alcohol down her throat. The woman's eyes were doused in terror as she clutched her child to her body, trying to warm her, searching frantically with her gaze for some sign of a rescue but finding none. His body went into violent convulses as hypothermia eased and worsened at the same time, but he could not tear his stare from that mother and her daughter. Everything about this horrible night was symbolized in their silence, in their desperate tears, in their two different understandings of death and pain.  
  
Verona Sinclair shook with more than the bitter, impenetrable cold. She was absolutely horrified. Her body had stopped all natural responses to such amazing awfulness and she was in a deep state of shock. Even though the sea was tinged dark blue with the rising pink sun, all she could see was black waves and the steel that had promised her life crumbling into decay.  
Unconsciously she pulled her little girl, Elisabéth, closer under her chin. The once smooth, sleek brown curls were mussed and salty against her skin. I want to go home, Verona murmured inside of her head.  
Visions of olive and cherry groves materialized in front of her. Lemon yellow sunshine shafts pierced through the leaves, dotting soft muddy grounds with dappled green light. The little wooden cottage where she had grown up, chinks filled with clay, a soft scent of lilies and lilacs perfuming the air. What I wouldn't give to take Elisabéth back to France . . .  
She knew that, even though she and her child had escaped peril in a lifeboat, she was not out of the clutches of death. Who knew if they would be rescued, or if she wouldn't give in to the misery and fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her?  
Titanic. If ever a word had seemed so solid and sturdy, she did not know of it. Just the very ship had promised a life of everything her family had been dreaming of for centuries. François wanted her to be happy in the land where streets were paved with gold and even the poorest of people were cloaked in red velvet and laughter.  
The memory was stoked in her head before she even knew it was there.  
  
"Women and children only! Step back, sir! Step back!"  
"François!"  
"Step back or I'll shoot you all like dogs! Keep order here! Keep order, I say! Mr. Lowe! Man this boat!"  
"Verona!"  
"Sir, step back! I must demand you to step back!"  
  
"Daddy . . .!"  
"François! Let me out to be with my husband!"  
"I'll be fine, love! Just go!"  
"Daddy!"  
"Elisabéth, it'll be alright, stay with mummy!"  
"You lot stay back! I'll shoot if you get any closer!"  
"Verona, go! Take Elisabéth and go! And no matter what, be brave!"  
"No, no! François!"  
"Lower away! Steady!"  
"No! François! . . ."  
  
The teardrops started falling down like rain. She did not have the power to stop them. She buried her face in the coat wrapped around her and smelt him, cigar and tobacco and vanilla. He had to be alright. He had to be. He must have gotten on another boat, that's all. He couldn't leave her. If not her, he couldn't leave his daughter. He wouldn't.  
  
"Verona, marry me."  
"What?"  
"Marry me. Grow old with me. Please. It's a new adventure."  
"Will you still love me when I'm old and grey and falling apart?"  
"What? You mean more so than now?"  
"François!"  
"I'm sorry, darling, to hurt your dreams, but to me you will never be old. To me it will never matter. I will love you till the end of time."  
"Yes! Yes yes yes!"  
  
The end of time . . . what cruel words.  
She clutched her daughter to her, waiting for the word that her husband was alive and well, waiting for him to hold her, waiting for Elisabéth to smile again.  
Waiting for an absolution that would never come.  
  
The sun was finally high enough into the sky for Jack to turn and notice it. The horizon was painted red – red with Rose's blood. His shaking hand reached toward the line where sky and sea met, trying to grasp that blood. It was all of her he had left.  
But even that was taken from him. Finally he fell back into the blanket, eyes closed, praying that the breath he had so treasured and had shared with his Rose would be ripped from his lungs.  
It was regret that was digging his grave for him. He couldn't move from all of the guilt that was on his shoulders. The water, it seemed, had drowned not just a ship, but a love like no one could ever dream of. He bit his lip hard, skin separating at the soft bottom corner. All he could think of was the last time his lips had been bruised, but then they had been bruised with violent and gentle kisses. Now blood formed in beads where his teeth had dug into the skin, and he felt none of the delicate, silky, supple touch that Rose's mouth had brought his own. The ripe red curves of her lips had been enough to make him faint with desire as he had stared at them before their first kiss. Was it really him, the same man, who had been so . . . happy? Was it possible for a heart to beat that fast out of joy?  
He had been so afraid to hurt her . . . so afraid that she would leave him after she saw his world. But like a true wild spirit, she had embraced something so beautiful and unknown to her and had shown him something that he had never seen in France or London or Sweden . . .  
Love should never make sense. It should just be.  
Holding her had been an experience to make the bravest tremble and the meekest gain courage. He couldn't explain how it felt to envelope her elegant, petite body with his own. His arms had wrapped around her waist and he had known that was exactly where he belonged, his face nestled in the crook of her neck, the breeze letting her heavenly scent drift to him, scarlet curls whipping around his face, watching her tremble as his breath fell on her soft skin.  
She deserved more, he realized now. She deserved life. She deserved choice. She deserved to be held and kissed and treasured to her soul's content. She deserved freedom. But mostly she deserved to dance in the stars in the lover's dance forever, feet barely brushing the milky white strands of dust in the galaxy. Because Rose DeWitt-Bukater had done something that Jack could never do.  
She had given her whole heart in blind faith.  
Before she even knew his name, she had laid her whole life out for him to see, to caress. He had known every important secret that she had kept bound and chained in the very depths of her being. He had known everything important. She trusted him before she even grasped that she had done it at all.  
With a soft, audible moan, he remembered that look in her eyes as she pulled him into the back of the Renault.  
"Nervous?"  
"No . . ."  
Those eyes were the only ones that had ever pierced his skin so deeply that his entire body was on fire. There was no heat like that one, the heat of desire wound with the heat of passion to create the flames of love. The blue-green color had seemed to peel off his skin and stare right at his spirit. What had made him almost too terrified to move was the trust that was transmitted in her gaze, the trust that he would never hurt her, and the absolute adoration of him. Irises smoky with love, not lust.  
He tried to swallow but could not. There was a lump in his throat. His lungs constricted.  
He was vaguely aware of the man in charge of the boat yelling and waving his arms. Furious, he glanced up. What right did people have to be afraid now, knowing what hundreds of others had just gone through? Who cared if they died? Didn't they deserve it by now? All of them had left fellow humanity to the ocean, allowed the Atlantic to plunder the lives of fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, lovers . . . and a Rose.  
Dead.  
It was a word that left a hard, cold emotion planted straight in his very center. He could not feel the tears that dripped down his cheeks. Crying was hardly a release anymore. Whenever he pushed any of the guilt away it all piled back so fiercely that he had to clamp his mouth to keep from screaming. Maybe it would have been a relief to scream, to let this anguish swirl into the now auburn sky. But he didn't really care about relief. To him, if his pain was still there, Rose was still there, if the suffering was still his, Rose was still his. And he would never let go of her. Never.  
He couldn't look into the future. He didn't even think there was going to be a tomorrow. He didn't think the sun would really ever rise. In just those few days Rose had become his sun, moon, stars, air, life, chance . . . In his head, he terrifyingly cursed God, praying for an answer as to why something so wonderful and amazing and completely flawless could crumble under the weight of something so surreal and horrible.  
Every time he asked these questions, he realized there were no answers, no reason, that it had just been a break of fate, and that made him feel worse. Because Jack Dawson had always believed that one could choose their own destiny, chart their own course. Now he knew that he could have saved his Rose but had failed mercilessly at the hands of the Almighty.  
Suddenly the soft sounds of water lapping against the boat's hull went away. Daybreak faded to blackness and memories were stoked.  
  
The soft sea breeze picked up strands of both Jack and Rose's hair and melted them into one shimmering lake of fire-stained color. Jack shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, grasping at the worn fabric of his trousers, taking his nervousness out on his clothes.  
The two were strolling along boat deck in the beautiful Saturday air, trying to talk, trying to come up with a way to lead them to the subject of last night, of suicide, but at the same time just enjoying each other's company.  
She was so beautiful at this moment, with a smile glittering on her face, a genuine, real smile, the one he loved, the one that sparkled with the rubies of passion and the emeralds of adventure and the sapphires of newfound hope. He bit his lip as she talked easily to him, speaking of the weather and other trivial things that he was raptly caught up in when they fell from her perfect, blood-colored lips, lips that were ripe and round and he would love to caress with his own. But he held himself back.  
He studied her, the sunlight dancing off her features, her skin sparkling like white marble, and some sort of inner relief radiating off of her body. God, how he wished he was drawing her. He wanted to transfer the Rose he saw right now onto paper, because he knew that she would quickly vanish beneath the unreal Rose that everyone else saw. He wanted to capture this minute for all minutes to come.  
But, seeing as he wasn't drawing, he simply listened. It was amazing to hear her speak. It wasn't so much what she said; he wasn't all that interested in the sunshine and the temperature, to be exact. It was how she said it. Her hands moved gracefully as she spoke. She bent her head to hear as he replied. And she laughed. It was such a wonderful thing to hear her laugh. It was a sparkling sound of a melody like a bell of nature, a sound that made his heart slam against his ribs until he could actually feel the pain of each bone piercing it. His tongue became thick and dry so that he could barely speak, but all at the same time he was at more ease with her than with anyone else in the world – with the exception of Fabri, of course.  
"So, Mr. Dawson," she began. He inwardly flinched at hearing his name so properly. Shit, he was anything other than the definition proper. Maybe he didn't sleep around, maybe he had a heart for people, but he never even tried to be proper. Not only that, but it made him felt so damn old! With the daydreams he was having right now about the woman next to him, it actually felt good to know that he was only a few years older than her.  
Then again, he loved the way her eyes lit up when she spoke – Mr. Dawson – and he couldn't make herself interrupt her. It wasn't that big of a deal, really, was it?  
"You never told me about your . . . childhood. All I learned was that you are not that great at icefishing." He picked out the teasing in her voice and he couldn't help but glance over at her with cool amusement, realizing that yeah, he had let that slip in. He knew she had more pressing matters on her mind but he just wanted to become friends with her first.  
"My . . . childhood, Miss DeWitt-Bukater?" He mimicked, his eyes laughing. She nodded, and slowed but continued her steps, clearly interested, obviously wanting to hear to another person's angle on life.  
"Well, Rose, I dunno what there is to tell. I guess that's it about my life then. Lonely and nothing to discuss," Jack joked, not really knowing where to begin. He was surprised that Rose didn't even seem fazed.  
  
"Oh goodness, Mr. Dawson. You'll excuse my language but . . . bullshit."  
Jack laughed out loud and she seemed to smile self-consciously. Hell, he thought. She has one white hot spirit beneath all that.  
"I can tell, just by that look you have in your eyes, that you have quite some story in that big head of yours."  
He chuckled and sighed. "Hmmm . . . well, it all started out in this little cabin where my dad and my mom got married and, you see, they had their wedding night –"  
"Mr. Dawson!" She exclaimed, cheeks blushing furiously. She grasped his hand and leaned closer to him, trying to ignore disdainful looks from the other first-class passengers.  
He forgot to breathe. His heart nearly stopped. She was too close. Way, way too close. He couldn't restrain himself from her like this. He could see every perfectly shaped eyelash, see the look of embarrassment and yet admiration in her burning eyes, and maybe, just maybe, a little of the desire he felt? "I mean after . . . that!" She whispered furiously, laughing. He put his hands on each of her shoulders. He meant just to help her stand up straight again. But he almost cracked.  
Because beneath that layer of fabric was her skin. There was nothing but a dress between his hands and her skin. Nothing but air between his mouth and hers. Nothing but everything between them.  
He heard her inhale, and then somehow the oxygen got caught in her throat. She seemed to be thinking exactly what he was. But her reaction was different. Every one of his impulses was to kiss her right there and then. But she stepped away.  
He closed his eyes for a second to calm himself then started to speak, voice shaking. "I didn't have any brothers or sisters, only child, you know." She nodded her agreement, and he knew she was too. But he was still shivering so hard that he didn't speak for a few minutes. What had just transgressed between them was sure to haunt him for quite awhile. He couldn't help but wonder what she would have done if he had kissed her. Would she have kissed him back? Push him away? Just go limp?  
She cleared her throat pointedly, obviously trying to prod him on, as he gazed past her and at the sea, in its folds of melted-sky blue. He had never told anyone the whole story of his growing up, not even Fabrizio. He hardly knew Rose. But at the same time, for some reason, he wanted more than anything to let her get to know him, to get a feel for the person he was, as soon as possible. He tilted his face up to the angles of the sun that was softened by cool, salty air and sighed.  
"I grew up in Chippewa Falls – I think I told ya that, not sure if you were payin' much attention. Anyway, we weren't farmers, but we lived on a big ol' plot of land with a huge red barn in back. My mother had a garden – but that was about all we grew. We kept a few horses in the stalls, but they were wagon horses. I never had my own, exactly, we were pretty poor. But my parents were always happy. Always, always happy. I had a group of friends I hung out with, but I never got into the girls, really." He paused. Summarizing his early years was about as easy as living them, which was, to say the least, almost impossible.  
"My father was great. He worked hard at the lumber mill for pay fit for a pig – but he always put food on the table and blankets on the bed and clothes in the wardrobe. Shit, I hope someday I'm as good a dad as him. He taught me everything – how to fix things, how to fish, how to hunt, how to chop down trees for firewood. Everything I need to survive I learned from my parents." He stopped, pained with memories, as she raised her eyebrows. Maybe this was all new to her. Maybe her father hadn't been like his. It seemed a crime not to have parents like Jack's had been.  
"He told me to always look into someone, not on them, and showed me how to be brave – that bravery is not the absence of fear, but learning how to deal with that fear. He never told me not to be scared but he told me to be brave . . ."  
He trailed off as Rose seemed to consider his words. She bit her lip in concentration, a beatific, confused expression on her face. He could almost hear her mind tossing that idea around inside. Courage seemed a thing that she had heard of, maybe even experienced, but never understood. He would give anything at that moment to make her understand! To make her feel that wondrous feeling of having a choice to stand firm or run and then having to live with the consequences for a lifetime, to make her bask in the reflecting glow of what America was all about. Freedom. It was like . . . he didn't know . . . the choice of pain, of sacrifice and survival, of being able to fly with or against the wind, to take the burn and the balm.  
  
Finally, while he was still being consumed by these agonizing dreams and pleads, she lifted her head and stared at him. "And your mother?"  
He was suddenly aroused out of his daze at the mention of Ma. He could still see her in the back of his mind. Long, honey-colored hair piled in a bun, sea-green eyes sparkling with contentedness, skin tan and calloused from hard work, but a heart as soft as down.  
"My mother was . . . she was . . . oh God, Rose, she was the best mother anyone in their right minds could ever ask for. She was so gentle but she worked so hard . . . scrubbing and sewing and reaping and planting and cooking. I learned how to love life from her." Among other things, Jack thought, and he coughed loudly as if trying to cough Rose DeWitt- Bukater out of his system.  
She smiled brilliantly and finally he saw realization burst into her eyes. The limpid oceans of emerald suddenly glistened with blue knowledge like his and she actually giggled. Giggling, mind you, was something he supposed she did not do everyday. He grinned.  
"So . . . you had the childhood most of us, including me, only dream about then?" She asked, strolling almost lazily along the deck, trying to breathe in the sunshine it seemed, but to him she was sunshine. He blushed at the intimate thoughts racing through his mind and nodded.  
"Well . . . when I was fifteen my parents died. After that, I lit on outta there and I haven't been back since." Her smile slipped off her face and she glanced at him apologetically, with sympathy and guilt.  
If there was one thing Jack never wanted, it was pity. He hated charity, despised hand-outs and commiseration. He never wanted anyone to feel sorry for him, because there was nothing to feel sorry for. His parents weren't here anymore, they had gone on to eternal bliss and he would be there someday. He choked up for a moment but quickly swallowed. Not now, not now, don't ruin this, not now . . . c'mon Jack, for Rose . . . he thought, panicking. Flashes and he could smell the acrid smoke; see the boiling flames, and hear the scream – "Jack?! Where are you?!" The funeral, the looks, the road ahead of him, and running . . . running . . . running . . . cowardly or courageous always running . . .  
No. He was not gonna relieve those memories. Now was a time for new memories, for a new life. He was twenty years old now. He had to stop living in nightmares of yesterday.  
Quickly, his words shot out of his mouth in desperation to get his mind and her mind off of tragic mortal wounds that were like an iron burning his skin. Before his grin faded, he was speaking.  
"Guess you could just call me a tumbleweed blowin' in the wind!." She laughed and the smile was replaced. A weight fell of his shoulders and tumbled into the abyss of things he had cast off, never to be seen again, and in sheer relief and inhaled deeply, his eyes watering from the salt.  
"Well, Rose," he said lightly, watching her with interest, "We walked 'bout a mile around this here deck and chewed over the weather and how I grew up, but I reckon that's not why you wanted to talk to me, is it?"  
She grew obviously uneasy and his face took on a seemingly serious expression, but he knew that she could tell he was amused by the way she was visibly intimidated by his bluntness. He bit his lip and held his drawing pad in front of him, pressed to his body with both hands. She seemed to search her mind for something to say and he was struck all over again by how beautiful she was. The heavenliest creature he had ever seen. He was sure even angels or Aphrodite herself could not rival her. No goddess had skin like that, skin that was soft and pale and like milk, no goddess had hair like that, hair that was wild and seemed to fight against being swept up and was made of vivid scarlet curls, no goddess radiated such desire like that, so that he was sure he would burn into ashes on the floor with his fires of passion. Passion?  
I am not in love, he told himself firmly, cheerfully trying to convince himself. I am not.  
"Mr. Dawson, I –"She finally stumbled, glancing at him uncomfortably.  
He had a sudden craving to hear her say his name, a sudden desperate urge that drowned everything else she said. He wanted to be more than an acquaintance to her. "Jack," he said encouragingly, nodding his head, an ear tilted to her to listen.  
"Jack . . ." She murmured uncertainly. His heart nearly soared into the sky. He had never heard his name like that, like a holy prayer falling from that angel's lips. He slowed down as she struggled, not knowing what to say, and he not knowing what to think.  
"I want to thank you for what you did . . ." This had been the last thing that he had expected. He didn't think that she could find the strength to thank him, to bring up last night in a sudden way. But then again, he had misjudged her a few times, and he didn't judge people. He felt people's emotions, their anguish and ecstasy and sorrow.  
"Not just for . . . for pulling me back . . . but for your discretion . . ." She took a deep breath and his humbleness jumped in. He didn't joke about it – he knew she hurt inside, and she wanted to help her heal.  
"You're welcome," he answered, nodding, not making it out to be a big deal. His voice was strong in order to strengthen her, but really he didn't know why she was thanking him in the first place. If he had denied her story, it was a one way ticket to spend the rest of the voyage locked in some room down there and a friendly police officer waiting to escort him onto land where he would be convicted of rape. Of course, that hadn't really run through his head until after he had seconded her account. He smiled at the memory of her excuse. Propellers. How ingenious.  
"Look . . . I know what you must be thinking. . ." she labored out, trying to think of what to say. She mistook his expression for him teasing her, but really it was as far from the truth as could be! He wanted to know her life tale, had to know it, he was dying from the need of fulfillment to his curiosity. For anyone to even consider what this sweet being had, they needed to be in the strongest point of anguish a human soul could handle; he knew, he had been. Something in him wanted desperately to shoulder her burden and wipe away her tears and carry off her pain, but she wouldn't let him!  
"'Poor, pretty little rich girl, what does she know about misery?'" She supplied, and it hit him like a blow to his insides that she thought he could even suggest that was nearly close to the case. He leaned back against a thick coil of rope and she stopped suddenly, whirling around to face him. In that moment he could see the real her. Her guard was down and he saw.  
Past her beauty, something exquisite and wonderful was blooming, something amazing and something that he had never quite seen. But on this lovely flower was a vine, a thick vine that wound up the stem of something so magnificent, choking life and water from the budding colors, leaving them graying and old.  
"No," he murmured passionately, savoring this once-in-a-lifetime chance at looking through a clear window, his face wearing a look of absolute interest and yearning to understand, "That's not what I was thinking."  
She looked shocked for a moment, stunned that maybe all humanity wasn't as shallow as she had seen. She didn't even fight for her composure; everything was gone as her emotions lay literally bare in front of him. He relished in that startled look in her eyes, green flames of hope flickering in blue pools of water.  
"What I was thinking was," he continued, "'What could have happened to this girl to make her think that she had no way out?'"  
Her gaze quickly dropped from his and he almost regretted showing her what he saw so abruptly. But then, miracles of miracles! Her round lips parted and she stuttered, "Well, I . . ." Suddenly the dam burst open and all of her feelings that she had obviously hidden from even herself cascaded through her entire being, refreshing him in its cool flow. He leaned back to listen like he knew she wanted him to.  
"Oh, it was everything! My whole world, and all the people in it." She was pacing now, and without warning stopped and leaned against the rail next to him, bracing her back on the white paint. "And the inertia of my life, plunging ahead, and me powerless to stop it!"  
She thrust a delicate hand out at him, and he cupped it with both of his rough ones, feeling the softness of fingers that had never known work like his had. His eyes could not help but be drawn to the absolute rock on her ring finger, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. Shit, he had never seen, no, never heard of, a damn diamond so huge! He almost could feel the weight of it sinking through her palm and into his. And with it came the realization that she was engaged.  
He had known it before, but hadn't grasped it until now. Engaged. Promised to another man. The fiancée of someone else. Unavailable. Those red rosebud lips only opened to the tall man with dark hair that he had seen earlier. Cal? Was that what she had called him?  
"My God," he joked, trying to lighten his heavy heart. "Look at that thing! You woulda gone straight to the bottom." His eyes caught hers, expecting her to be in the least amused, but she desperately plunged on with her fate.  
"Five-hundred invitations have gone out," she softly exclaimed, her words coming in strangled cries, "All of Philadelphia Society will be there and all the while I feel as if I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up!"  
Frantically she looked at him, her chest heaving, trying to gain comfort from him, a stranger, as though she thought that he might finally be the one to look up, to see her, to see the real her, and want her for what she really was. She had no idea how much he did want her. His heart broke for this poor, abused rose in front of him, her petals one flourishing with color and now being blotted away.  
He had to know. The question was burning holes in him like the acid he had seen in the meat houses in London. He knew that he shouldn't really care, that it was not his to know, but at the same time he also knew that he did care, and it was his to know, because . . . well, because . . .  
He had fallen in love? Was that it? It couldn't be. There was no way someone like him could fall in love. He had always tried to stay away from commitments like that, because once you feel in it was impossible to climb out. Waves of caring would wash over your head until you had sealed your fatality and drowned yourself. He could almost see himself slipping into the bubbling water of chance. He tried to keep his mouth shut but it didn't work. The question was out, hanging in the air between them, thickly floating with the salt.  
"Do you love him?"  
He watched her face carefully and it seemed to take her a minute to register his sentence. For a moment she looked like she was fighting some inward battle. Love? How could she love someone who treated her like "he" did, like a doll about to break or a puppy about to run off? Pain that only lies within the shamed and the passion-deprived jumped into her eyes until all blues and greens died away in the overpowering, torturous black that was the terror of her soul. She was grasping for composure and found it, shred by shred.  
"Pardon me?"  
He wasn't afraid anymore. He had never been afraid. Jack Dawson wasn't scared of people easily. So he leaned back, shoulders rubbing against the rope supporting him, and repeated silkily and clearly, "Do you love him?"  
She seemed to almost wither in his boldness and sureness of himself. Her expression flickered with sudden anger as she stood and began to walk away.  
"You're being very rude – you shouldn't be asking me this!" She hissed at him, arranging her skirts in a delicate way that let him know that, yeah, she was furious inside. But he continued to probe because he wanted to awake her to what even he could see plain as day. She didn't know love.  
"Well, it's a simple question," he retorted smartly. "Do you love the guy or not?" A smile split his face and she seemed to roll her eyes at him, as though she were talking to a child that could not understand such matters, rather than a grown man three years older than her, having seen more of the world than her, and concerned only for wiping away her spoiled rich life for a better view of real . . . life. He could feel her frustration with him but underneath it all the fascination at such a blunt statement. However, it disappeared beneath her hot and fiery spirit. It wasn't so much the question he had asked but how he kept pursuing it and she wasn't gonna stand for it. Her eyes darted around, and, scandalized, she turned back to him.  
"This is not a suitable conversation!" Her desperate whisper had disappeared to quiet, righteous anger. Happy that he had at least gotten part of her true self to show, he relaxed and he knew she saw his muscles loosen up. "Why can't you just answer the question?" He grinned.  
That simply broke the tip of her patience away. She clasped a hand to her forehead, the diamond shimmering in the sunlight. A sizeable lump welled in Jack's throat and he found it hard to talk for a moment. Why was it that one got those damned feelings, that destiny was trying to tell him something? He could almost hear Heaven in his head, 'Getting a little rusty, aren't we Jack? Don't we understand signs from God anymore? You are supposed to be with her forever.'  
The feeling gave him the chills and he closed his smoldering eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw her pacing. She looked gorgeous and this anger made her even more seemly, if possible, spots of color and spirit on her blushing cheeks, eyes aglow with even more color and fierceness.  
"This is absurd!" She exclaimed, and he was sure half of Titanic had heard her, and he was glad they had, because maybe they'd see that Society couldn't kill something that was so alive. He sprung from the rail and strolled next to her, hands casually in her pockets, but longing to touch the throbbing skin that was being held away from him. He examined her with his own eyes, and he felt her shudder, as if she could almost see him reading her like the pages of a book. It was his gift to know people intimately like that, and he was using it now. "You don't know me and I don't know you," she went on, quieter, all in a rush, "And we are not having this conversation at all!"  
He had to bite his lip in order to stop from laughing. He loved this side of her, the real her. This was the her that he wanted to gather in his arms and hold and kiss forever. He wanted to treasure her like he knew that only he was capable of doing, and he wanted her to confide in him, know him, need him. But in 1912, love did not matter, it was money and standing and homes and jewels. And it sickened him. Right now, not a thought crossed his mind but ones that mirrored what he guessed he already knew. Hell, maybe she already knew.  
She seemed so irritated at his cool, amused silence and the not-so- hidden smile on his face that she nearly stomped her foot. Instead a gush of words poured out where he knew curses wanted to be. "You are rude and uncouth and presumptuous and . . ." He nodded his head with mocking thoughtfulness, his grin widening, to agree with her, and lifted his face to the wind, not seemingly caring. He loved being able to get under her skin like this and shatter that rigid self control Society thought mattered above all else but money.  
Finally, she gracefully but still angrily held her slight hand out for him to shake. He grasped it immediately, shaking it heartily, the worked-smooth calluses on his own fingers feeling every silky soft skin inch on hers, trying to maybe suck from her the weight she had on his shoulders. Perhaps he could have but she didn't let him.  
"Jack," she spat, but then quickly thought of a more stinging remark, "Mr. . . Dawson . . ." Her voice dripped with sarcasm as though he did not deserve the title Mister, that he could never be a gentleman. He didn't really care or even want to be. He was himself and that was enough for him. "I sought you out to thank you and now I have," she continued, maddeningly.  
He couldn't help but wedge in a little comment here, if just to watch her face color more. With that teasing smile still in place he added, "And you insulted me," but all the while never stopped vigorously shaking her hand.  
She faltered for a moment. "But . . . you deserved it!" She finished, almost triumphantly, as if daring him to disagree. Vocally he didn't, but by his tone he knew that she knew that he did.  
"Right!" He replied, all too enthusiastically.  
She decided to join in his game. "Right!"  
He felt her hand try to slip from his but his much stronger one wouldn't let her go. Oh Rose, he thought to himself, if I had my way I would never let you go. Not ever.  
Her perfect mouth opened into a surprised gasp and he couldn't think of a better time to kiss her. But he ignored the carnivorous animal-like pangs welling within his body and only let her go when she twisted out of his grasp. And just like that, she flounced around and turned her back on him.  
He felt like a silly lovesick kid as he leaned back on the balls of his feet in his tough boots and watched her sweep away. He knew that she'd be back, but wasn't entirely prepared when she suddenly turned around and, seeing his content and easy-going countenance, seethed, "You are so annoying!" Her hair was picked up by a sudden gust of wind, framing her livid face that still reflected with her goddess-like loveliness.  
He chuckled, letting the look on her face get to him, allowing the emotions to sweep through him once more. She did roll her eyes this time, and haughtily turned away, her nose high in the air, dignity in every step she took.  
Without warning she spun around and glided back to him, a sudden realization brightening her walk. "Wait! This is my part of the ship!" She vented, for the first time in an hour again noticing the bright hats and dresses and well groomed suits of the upper class on the boat deck. She pointed her finger to the stern, where the third-class passengers berthed. "You leave!" She demanded.  
He could almost see where she could be a relative of Tommy, a wealthy source of temper and a dying raindrop of patience. It intrigued him so much that he was annoying her now just for the hell of it! It was bliss to see her mysteriously drawn to him and yet angry at him at the same time.  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He murmured, laughing, his eyes sweeping from her to the blue foam that was the sea, up to the sky, then at her again. As she was waiting for him to speak, her hand dropped lifeless by her side, seemingly enchanted by him. "Now who's being rude?" He chastised childishly, watching her face become a painting of being startled and shocked and maybe, maybe just a little bit satisfied. However, she realized she was defeated and with an almost playful look she snorted, her curls being picked up and let down by the cool breeze, until they became a fiery artwork of molten lava-like bronze.  
She seemed to grasp for another thing to say, anything, to get his mind off of her loss. He could tell, with a hint of joy, that she didn't want to leave him.  
"What is this stupid thing you're carrying around anyway?" She challenged fiercely, yanking at his sketchbook. His hand had been lax around the pad and she easily slid it from his fingers. He made no move to take it back. Actually, he had been meaning to show it to her, to get her opinion, 'cause for some reason it really mattered to him what she thought. It was strange. He usually never cared.  
With determination to harshly criticize him, she peeled the leather cover back and let it dangle past her fingertips. Her eyes collided with the first drawings and they widened to the size of marbles. For the first time, she seemed speechless. He watched her in amazement. No one had ever appreciated his work before, at least not like that, with soul and mind and heart.  
"So what are you, an artist or something?" She asked quickly, trying to wipe away any admiration for his work she had found. But as she continued to flip through his book, it seemed she couldn't contain herself. He leaned back to watch her, his arm wrapped around the rope. His blonde hair fell into his eyes and he swept it back.  
"Well, these are rather good," she admitted, their argument fading as quickly as it had risen. She slowly walked and sat on the edge of a deck chair, looking intently. He followed her, relieved that his emotion of freedom and pain had reached her without trouble. "These are very good actually . . ." Her voice brightened with each gaze she took.  
He sat next to her and watched as her fingers caressed the lines of a newborn child and his mother, capturing in essence the victory of life, the triumph of survival. He swore that he could see tears in her eyes as a parent's love for what they had created swirled to meet hers and she sat, staring at two living examples trapped in time on paper.  
"Jack," she breathed, lost in his world, "This is exquisite work . . ." He shivered at her splendid words, her compliments meaning more to him than if Heaven had fallen and praised him, for in a way it had. The one corner of the world that was still right was hers to treasure, if only for the briefest second, and she accepted wholeheartedly.  
As she flipped to the next page, Jack mused absentmindedly, "Ah, they didn't think of 'em too much in old Paree . . ."  
She listened until the end of the sentence and then her head suddenly shot up. Her eyes glittered and he saw what must have been her few happy memories race through her soul. Her lips shaped that smile that made him weak as, with her voice full of awe, she echoed, "Paris?!"  
He put his elbows on his knees, looked up at her, and nodded. She seemed to consider him and shrugged with surprise. For a moment he could see her irises go misty, as she was back in some place, with someone who loved her. Then she remembered where she was and she turned. With disbelief in her voice, she said, "So you do get around, for a p –" Suddenly she stopped midsentence and her face fell. A terrible thing like regret flew across her face and she looked apologetically at him. When he did not respond, she explained haltedly – "Well . . . for a person of . . . limited –"  
A candle suddenly lit in his head and he understood immediately why she was so uncomfortable. He grinned because all of his life he had been taught to say the truth bluntly and never be ashamed of it or hide in different paths. If she thought that he felt self pity for his "financial" situation, she couldn't be more wrong. In fact, everyday he thanked God for this amazing freedom and the chance to see more in a year than most people glanced at in a lifetime. He could go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted, and that was the road chosen for him. There was something wonderful about working so hard to get food that you were too tired to eat it when it was finally in your reach, about calluses hard and stiff on your palms from rope and sunshine. So before she could struggle out the word "means", he cut in, nodding his head to encourage her, his smile widening as amusement soared.  
"I'm a poor guy, you can say it," he laughed, thinking it was strange for her to be gettin' so worked up over something so small. But then again, it was told that in Society you never, ever, ever talked about wealth or lack of. It just wasn't done. Oh well, he had never lived by the laws before.  
She giggled with relief, her shoulders falling back as she relaxed more. And suddenly he could see who she wanted to be mixed in with what she was forced to be. It was the way her eyes glittered, the way her face glowed, the way she sparkled like an angel that never quite figured out how to use her wings. Her regal posture never broke but yet wasn't really hers, she had a dignity and grace all of her own that had nothing to do with the way she sat. Something woke within her, something that had not seen light since she must have been a small, small girl.  
She moved one drawing aside to look at the next one, and he saw it before she did. She was coming onto a series of nude sketches. Distantly, he remembered France . . . prostitutes lying on pillows or velvet that did not match with their beautiful but wasted and raped bodies. Tangled messes of hair, a far away look in their expressions. Freedom. Chains cut with a piece of charcoal.  
He saw the blush on Rose's cheeks as he jerked himself out of memories long past. She bit her lip and ever so quietly murmured, "Well, well, well, what have we here?" It seemed as she flipped through the drawings that, even though she was repelled by naked women drawn with a man's hand, she could not tear her vision away from the eternal truths and secrets locked in paper. Something moved in her eyes, something like understanding, as she went from each girl, face to face. Struggle. Survival. Victory. Liberty. That was what he thought she saw as she gazed into another person's dreams and hopes.  
She ripped her look from the portraits long enough to stare at Jack and ask, boldly but timidly at the same time, as if afraid to waken the spirits hidden in his work, "And . . . these were . . . drawn from life?"  
Not wanting to disturb her, he just nodded as she returned to the sketches. He studied her, how magnificent she was, and he wanted to draw her. A numb feeling stuck pins into his heart. He wanted to take up a charcoal stub and sketch everything he saw, the happiness and wonder she was feeling right now, her hair being played with by the Goddess of the Atlantic – wind – and her mind all on him, all on what he did, all on who he was.  
A man in a thick, ankle-long black dress coat strolled by, a stovepipe hat crowning his head. Immediately instincts awoke in Rose and she tilted the pad away from him so that he could not see the private emotions concealed here. The minute he had passed, the book went down and she continued her assessment. Jack turned and his eyes searched her face as she searched his soul that was poured in front of her.  
"That's one of the good things about Paris," he joked, "Lots of girls willing to take their clothes off." It was like he had unconsciously tested her. Any modest woman in the upper class would have slapped him, deservedly, and stood in shame to be in company with such a person.  
But Rose smiled. She chuckled in a 'you are so hopeless' sort of way and returned her focus on his pictures. He grinned at her reaction and he felt like he was falling into some deep pit.  
"You liked this woman," she said suddenly. "You've used her several times."  
He looked at the sketch she was pointing out and saw one of the many drawings of Bellé, the girl he had met in the streets. What a spirit that one had! Maybe not quite as rebellious as Rose, whom, he could see, was a fighter by nature, but all the same . . .  
He turned to the picture before that one, which showed Bellé's arms positioned in high over her head. "Well," he began with the tone of best friend to best friend, "She had beautiful hands, ya see?" He pointed to her arched fingertips above her head. They were beautiful hands, soft and slender, with long fingers and shapely fingernails. Hands that were made to hold an infant and nurse a child. Hands that had been used.  
Rose shook her head, auburn curls flying in her face. Apparently she was not satisfied with his answer. With a teasing look she interjected, "I think you must have had a love affair with her!"  
His blue eyes exploded with embarrassment. Him and Bellé? No, it just wasn't possible. They hadn't even considered a deeper relationship. And he didn't want Rose to think they had. Head shaking, cheeks pinkening, and mouth laughing, he exclaimed, "No, no, no, just with her hands!"  
She still didn't look convinced, as though she knew in the back of her mind that a man like Jack must have had tons of loves. But that was not so. He had never been in love with someone, or else he would have recognized the painful feelings in him now.  
"She was a one-legged prostitute," he added, chuckling. Rose's smile slipped from her face. "See?" He asked, pointing to Bellé's chest.  
The rose in front of him tilted the pad to see as he saw, and when she did, she tried to laugh, but it was forced. "Oh . . ." she muttered, abashed. His grin never faded as she realized that she was in Jack's company and didn't need to be so restrained.  
But faint yesterdays stirred to Jack again as he could see Bellé's laughing face, hear her jokes, feel her happiness. "Ah, she had a good sense of humor though . . ." He trailed off, remembering. Thick black hair. Dances. France.  
Rose looked at him in surprise, as if shocked at how he could see something so wonderful in someone so shamed, doomed to reckless abandon. Prostitutes were hardly human in her, no, their, eyes.  
Suddenly he remembered something and, lit with energy, turned the leaf to the next page. Thick charcoal lines made up the sketch and he almost audibly heard the breath leave her lungs.  
"Oh, and this lady," he murmured, "She used to sit at this bar every night, wearing every piece of jewelry she owned, just . . . waiting for her long lost love. We called her Madam Bijou. See how . . . her clothes are all moth-eaten?" Her eyes glazed over as he pointed, and she was not looking at the sketch. She was staring at him, searching for something within him, exploring the alcoves of his mind, feeling what the Artist within him felt.  
Suddenly realization dawned like a sun in her irises, brightening her entire body, making her buzz with relief. She looked like a flower that had finally bloomed. Something in him had released her. A smile spread on her face and she regarded him with a newfound respect that he had never seen used for him before. Longing lit in her like fire and, for the first time, she didn't smolder it out. He had the thought that, just for a split second, she could see the world as he saw it, as a treasure trove of opportunities and pain and tears and joy and life and death. She understood how he saw Bellé and Madame Bijou, how his vision was not physical, but spiritual. And something crashed down within her as she flew into his time, his Earth, his arms.  
"You have a gift, Jack," she whispered, as if afraid to disturb spirits caught in paper and newfound emotions unchained from her heart, as if afraid to question the supernatural bond between them, "You do." His insides were suddenly absent and breath was no longer his. Her praise was like raindrops of the water that slaked his thirst for all eras. "You see people."  
Even her curls danced as her entire body radiated the precious love of the present that he had. "I see you," he answered, his eyes locked with hers, blue and green colliding and bursting into the shades of the sea.  
As if to drop the heavy mood she straightened her back in her chair, playfully showing the dignity and grace of her own self, her nose high in the air as the mocking of her own class. "And?" She asked.  
The mirror of what he thought of her shattered into millions of shards of glass – each a wonderful tribute to her loveliness. Her Aphrodite looks, her spirit, the way she laughed, the twinkle in her eyes, the way she made his heart leap out of his chest and mouth and into her own body. But his mouth couldn't form the words.  
"You wouldn't have jumped," he forced out. Her face fell and she stared at him critically and his heart became wounded. He had insulted her, hurt her, and he wanted to kill himself in that moment.  
Without warning her expression changed. Her glorious smile spread across her face and teasingly she quoted, "Don't tell me what I will and will not do, you don't know me!"  
Relief, warm and merciful relief, flowed through his veins in place of blood. Almost giddy, he replied, "Miss DeWitt-Bukater, I believe I do!"  
  
His heart pumped furiously in him as she giggled and then shoved him playfully, muttering, "Shut up!"  
He loved this side of her, the real her, and he loved what she was doing to him, but he couldn't admit it to himself, not looking at her right now. He couldn't trust himself if he knew, because she looked so magnificent right now, he wouldn't be able to control himself.  
And he hated to think it, but he wasn't sure control was an option anymore.  
  
White. Blaring, blazing white glowing against his heavy eyelids. Jack awoke from the blackness and for a blessed moment he couldn't remember. Somehow he pried his eyes open.  
A man clothed in a thick grey sweater and pants was shining a light into him. He felt so cold . . . he forgot what it felt like to be warm . . . why was he so cold?  
Then the blessed moment was gone and he remembered. Terror gripped him, icier than his whole self. The innocence of a flower . . . the kiss soft as a petal . . . the ignorance . . .  
"Rose!" He shrieked, hardly being able to get his mouth to work. His tongue wouldn't obey his orders.  
The doctor looked at him and cringed. "Sir, I would ask you to remain calm. You have a severe state of hypothermia and shock and –"  
Tears whisked down his frozen face as he fought to find her, even a shred of her, her shawl, a lock of her hair, here her laugh. "God damn it, shut the hell up, son of a bitch! I let her die! I let her die! God, just kill me!"  
  
He went into a compulsion, his body writhing and his arms flailing, grasping, half expecting for his hands to link around a small waist and his lips to be buried in someone else's.  
"Sir! Sir, can you hear me?"  
Jack didn't answer, because he couldn't hear him. All he could hear were screams, dying cries, death wishes drowned in the smell of salt and ice.  
And above all else one fading voice, gentle with love and harsh with unbearable pain. "I love you, Jack . . ."  
He would never love another soul again. Love was no longer capable from him unless it was directed at the ghost of a person who had saved him.  
  
And in turn he had signed her murder with her own blood, giving her to the Devil beneath God's Earth.  
He knew, right now, that it was a lie that death was the worst thing in the world. There were things so much worse.  
He felt himself being restrained, food being forced down his throat.  
But there was no spirit or heart within him to keep himself healthy. Just a body.  
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to kill himself but he could not. He was trapped in the living dead. 


	23. Gone and Breathing

Review, VERY important chapter – thanks. You'll see a few lyrics from a song used as a poem and credit for that goes to Steve Wariner for his "Holes in the Floor of Heaven"  
  
"And we will forever remember what they did here . . . Nothing can ever be more consecrated than that."  
Rose did not cry as she stared ahead like stone during the memorial service for those who had had the breath ripped from their lungs on Titanic. Their blaspheming savior, Captain Rostron, stood in front of the mass of weeping and mourning people, his square shoulders trembling beneath their heavy adornments of metals that he had earned. His navy officer's uniform was crisp and not a wrinkle was to be seen, and that made Rose furious. She was standing in the very back of the dining saloon, her shoulders pressed against the peeling wall, her hair sticking to her face. Still she shivered with cold that had everything to do with the spirit and little to do with the water.  
How many brave stories of heroism would never be told because their witnesses were never to be found? How many widows would never know the true fate of their husband? And how many Roses must die inside to try to fill the void that Jack had been? More than a void. He had been her whole heart. He was her whole heart.  
Before the sailing of the Titan of the Deep, Rose had never really believed that a person truly had a soul and heart and spirit inside of them. She thought the blood, bones, and tissue method worked best. But now she knew that a soul, heart, and spirit were all people really owned!  
She closed her eyes against a flood of tears, locking them in her body.  
"No one will ever forget the blessing and curse of surviving . . ." Captain Rostron went on, elaborately trying to wipe away the grief of the orphans and lone spouses and childless parents that was drowning his ship. But the cold eyes of those who had escaped bored into him in a way that said they would never allow the anguish in them to be taken away. It was all they had now. The room was heavy with the smell of blood of those whose bodies had been sacrificed.  
"And now we honor those whose destinies were fulfilled in one terrible night with a moment of silence."  
One terrible night. Was that all he could say? There were no words in any language that was spoken or ever had been spoken on the face of the Earth to express the horror of a Time that no one who had seen it would ever leave.  
This was the part Rose had been dreading, the moment of silence. There was too much to think about in silence. It overwhelmed her, left her to the suicidal rage that built in every crevice of her body.  
When her eyes had first seen Jack Dawson, she had been intrigued by his gaze, could see his icy blue eyes from where she stood on the deck above him. But not once, not even in the bottom of her heart, had she considered loving him, or ever seeing him again. They were separated by the strongest boundary of all, a boundary not invisible and not unnoticeable. Class was a wall between them, a steep wall that she had neither the strength nor courage to climb. She never even thought about trying to climb it. She just took it for granted that no one would ever be able to help her.  
But there had been something different about him, something that could only be found in someone like him. She had felt a curious and strong feeling radiating from his vision into her heart, like he was reading the pages of a book, the book of her life stained with tears. Something heavy had been lifted from her shoulders just for a moment, but had been placed on again.  
She couldn't even think about going back to that burden now. Too much had changed. She was a completely different person, with different values and priorities and looks on life. She didn't even recognize the girl she had been. In her mind she had gone through three different identities, the Rose before Jack, the Rose with Jack, and now . . . the Rose after Jack. She knew the second one was what she was supposed to be. But she couldn't find the bravery to be Rose with Jack when Jack was no more.  
That one statement made the battle in another world explode and all hell break loose in her body. The Captain ceremoniously dropped a wreath of roses into the blue sea, and she envisioned herself tied in with them, going home. Tears rained.  
  
Jack's body was entirely drained of any energy within him. He was past fighting as a petite nurse with long blonde hair messy from hours of work spooned soup into his mouth and warmed his body with blankets. His mind was out of himself, still in the sea, still screaming . . .  
The nurse asked something tentatively, but he wasn't listening. His sharp gaze shifted from nothing to her, pools of blue focusing on her frame with almost painful realization that it was not the woman he had expected.  
". . . What's your name?" She repeated softly, as if afraid of him. Remembering his display he knew she had a right to be. He detected an English accent somewhere that was covered by an American upbringing.  
Who was he? He didn't even know. Everything was lost, but he didn't even attempt to find it. There was nothing to find. Tragedy was now his. That was who he was.  
But somewhere deep in a memory, a voice that he almost recognized as his own whispered, "I'm Jack Dawson."  
And then, his heart stopping, he heard her voice replying, mixed in with her chorus of hurt and terror and relief. "Rose DeWitt-Bukater."  
I know who I am, he thought. If just for Rose, I know who I am.  
"Jack . . ." he trailed off, not able to force out his own last name. Because he had thought another would share it, and he would never come to terms with the cold, hard fact that she could not. A life he had been mentally planning for the past three days was just a heap of broken dreams.  
This nurse didn't ask for a second name. She was looking at him as though he never had one. "I'm Charlotte," she returned, as though he had asked. He didn't hear. Didn't want to hear. The last girl's name he had heard had been so beautiful and terribly lost that he could not bear anything else coming from anyone else's lips.  
What-might-have-beens haunted him like restless ghosts, a sea away and yet they sounded like demons lying right in this bed beside him, whispering curses in his ear and reminding him of all he had failed.  
His true self was still within him, he knew that, but he didn't know how. Maybe Rose had not let him escape his own body, or maybe he had not, but whatever the reason he could not find that self in the layers of torturing anguish he was feeling now. It seemed like centuries since the pain had started and briefly he wondered if he would ever be free of it.  
He closed his eyes and could see images evolving into his brain, timeless images that showed just how much more suffering he would make himself endure. If he imagined hard enough, she was here, in his arms, her head on his chest, hair tickling his neck, body shaking with fear against his own. But eventually he would stop imagining and reality would soak into him like vinegar, making him scream out loud from the stinging agony.  
This girl, Charlotte?, mopped his face with a damp rag and he shoved her hand away. Did she think that he needed to cool down? How dare she, knowing how cold he had been . . .  
She sighed with frustration and the corners of her white, petite lips fell. He remembered another pair of lips, luscious and full and red as a Rose . . . Lost in sweet memories, he did not notice the nurse arranging his bedsheets and looking at him curiously. Suddenly, he realized he needed to know something.  
"How many?" He asked, his voice escaping his throat in a husky, raspy groan.  
She stared at him, not comprehending his question, and his heart pounded so hard with disgust at her stupidity that he nearly fell back and ignored her. But he wanted to know, he needed to know – there were so, so many things he needed to know. So, getting choked up because the horror was still too fresh to discuss, he clarified, "How . . . many of my . . . fellow passengers . . . won't be comin' home?"  
He couldn't make himself say, "How many died?" It was too impersonal. Even though he hadn't known even a hundredth of the Titanic's people, they were all laced together with the unmistakable thread of destruction.  
She bit her lip and shook her head, and his stomach thrashed within him. He knew the numbers would be high. He had lived, prayed, and died next to these people. Trembling, he spoke again, strength gathering in his utmost hate at what had caused this disaster. He didn't know what it was but he felt such a need to vent absolute abhorance that he made it up in his mind, and went on, "I need to know. You don't understand . . . I was . . . there . . ."  
Pity clouded in her eyes like smoke and savagely he fell back on his pillows, fury erupting in him at his situation. "Just tell me!" He bellowed, the burning in his throat subsiding.  
Charlotte gazed at him, as if judging his character, and sorrow and regret dripped as visibly as tears down her cheeks. She sat in a chair next to him and he knew it would be bad.  
"About fifteen-hundred," she murmured.  
At first he didn't connect. The number was too high. And then it hit. Grief spilled and he wept.  
One-thousand-five-hundred members of humanity had been silenced for crimes they had not committed in the Abyss of a place they did not belong. His entire self shook with horror as he thought of the hundreds of bodies in the sea, of terrified children and screaming parents, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters . . .  
The loss was too big to take in. He wasn't ready. He just couldn't.  
"Rose . . ." he moaned, reaching. Because of all of the people that had been murdered, in his mind only one thing was clear. He had helped the ocean in its crime.  
Somewhere deep in his brain the shriek was returned. "Jack!"  
Never again.  
  
Inside, Rose was walking through black rain and could see nothing out of the mist, because in her mind nothing was there. All day she sat huddled on cold, damp deck, tears falling or eyes staring as blank as her soul. Memories were almost gone, she felt as though she were in another universe and time. But the few she had left were precious to her and she had relieved them again and again, touching things she hadn't felt before and catching the scent of a man that had changed her life for an eternity and then vanished before she could even understand what he had done.  
The stale slice of bread in her lap was not at all tempting. She forgot it was there. Leaning against the mast, Rose wrapped herself more firmly in the thin flannel blanket and closed her heavy eyes. She had slept continuously for days, because it was her only true escape. As long as she dreamt, he was there, kissing away her stinging tears, bringing her with him to the Atlantic, back to Titanic, to his arms, to his heart. That was where she belonged.  
With a wash of new tears, Rose was again stumbling over things that she had never known about her love. She had never figured out Jack's birthday, or his favorite color. She hadn't asked why he was so into art or what he had wanted to do with his life. And worst of all, she had never asked if he loved her.  
He had never said those three words, "I love you." Sometimes Rose convinced herself that he hadn't, because it took the sharp edge off of her pain. But then a pang in her heart would begin that was a thousand times worse since she knew he had and did. Love was the only thing that she had or would ever have. She thought of his soft smile and his bold blue eyes that looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe that had ever been or ever would be. And no one had ever made her feel like that before.  
Her father, still imprinted in her mind even through her mixed feelings about him, had not been able to lift her so high that she was clearing the clouds to touch each glimmering star, watching down on Earth from their eternal place in the heavens. But Jack had more than lifted her, he had let her fly alone and yet with him, holding hands and guiding her but letting her be herself.  
And her mother . . .  
Rose had not seen Ruth DeWitt-Bukater since that fateful moment in the icy, silvery air that had cloaked the deck of Titanic and shrouded the lifeboat that Rose had been nearly forced to step in to. But in that moment, it had not been a lifeboat, it had been a deathboat, a boat making her leave the only true shred of life she had, a boat taking her away from every hope she had ever dreamed of. So, of course, she had left her mother without a second thought for her. Ruth had made Rose's first seventeen years as cold and hard as the marble they walked on. Somehow she reminded Rose of a stone column – noble and dignified but, the closer one got, they saw that she was just barely holding the roof up and had nothing left but cool, rigid, inflexible emotions that weren't even classified as feelings at all.  
Caledon Hockley had been surely different. Meaning harm or not meaning harm didn't really matter, he had inflicted scars upon her soul that would never be healed and cuts that would never mend. Because she had learned that trust could be taken advantage of and beauty could be raped. She had almost had her innocence taken from her, violently, more than once, and saving that once-in-a-lifetime gift of her virginity for Jack Dawson had been the best decision she had ever made in her life.  
Rose did not intend to ever find Cal or her mother or ever establish contact with them. They were a part of a life she was determined to never set foot in again. Now that she had felt the water she could never go back to the desert. When she closed her eyes she could see herself, her pain hidden behind gowns and splendor that her family could not afford, a diamond on her finger that didn't belong there. For once she had realized that she did belong somewhere, in one man's arms, her head pressed against his chest to hear that one man's heart beating as quickly and mercilessly as her own, flying over any boundaries that had ever existed between them, soaring over walls.  
A young woman, maybe a year or so older than Rose herself, was watching her with a worried expression from under the promenade near the hospital wing. She must have worked for the infirmary.  
She licked her top lip, as if trying to decide something, and Rose fervently and desperately prayed to be left alone. She couldn't stand being around other people because they were nothing compared to her Person.  
  
To Rose's dreading horror, the girl sauntered over to her, her eyes raking Rose's tangled mess of blood-red curls, her haunted blue-green eyes, and her clammy alabaster skin – magnificence that had faded with everything else.  
"Miss," she murmured, knowing that a loud voice would not help her if Rose did not want to hear, "Miss, we're here. It's Thursday. We're docking in New York."  
Rose had not noticed the steady increase in size of buildings as they drew closer and closer to the foggy gray coast. Her entire body clenched like steel when she heard. New York. The land she had left as a girl and was finally come home to, the land of a new day and new opportunities.  
She bolted to her feet, her fatigue almost gone and her muscles soft but workable. If there was one thing she ever wanted to see again, it was the Statue of Liberty. Something about it symbolized something she had lost, something so utterly beautiful and awesome that even the symbol couldn't even be true to the real thing.  
She walked without trouble to the edge of the Carpathia, hands gripping the fading metal rail so hard her knuckles turned white. She bit her lip and let her eyes soar upwards along that glorious, gigantic sculpture, amazement overtaking all of her emotions for one dreadful moment.  
The robe of the Lady was swept gracefully up her arm, folding over and falling down to her knee. In the crook of that elbow she held a book, on which Rose could make out the inscription – "JULY 4, 1774." That date was, to America, life and death, the alpha and omega, where everything started and ended. Then in the figure's right hand, lifted in utmost triumph of conquering the rest of the world, was the torch that glinted like gold on fire.  
But something that Rose had not noticed before brought tears to her eyes. Around the statue's feet was a chain emblematically broken, lying in two sections on the ground, telling a story of freedom.  
Her mind raced as she remembered. A crash in her head cleared her thoughts. Because to her freedom was not a thing, it was a being – it was Jack. He had rescued her from drowning and suffocating from the world she had thought was all there was to life. And as she stared at Lady Liberty, hands shoved deep in her pockets, it felt like, for just a moment, she could see him in something more than her dreams.  
It was such a relief to be in the rain, to be in cold water again, to feel it wash like ice across her skin and strip her body of any heat it had gained in the past few days. In this freezing stream that had come from the very sea itself, she was back in the place of death that she had never really left. She came to realize that she would always be in the Atlantic, on a board, screaming and weeping, because she had left her heart there and would never really get it back.  
She lifted her face to the frosty drizzle, letting each drop fall on her cheeks and eyelids and roll down her neck. Each was like a tear from Jack, and she felt connected to him for the first time in a long, long time.  
And through it all, the Statue of Liberty, the free Goddess of America, watched.  
"Can I take your name please, luv?"  
She heard the voice softly intrude on her moment of sacred silence and, stunned, she looked down. The officer with an umbrella was speaking gently, as terrified to frighten her. And as she looked at his clipboard, she knew what was on it.  
The survivor's list.  
The list of the chosen few to suffer on through life because their time was not yet done. The list of empty bodies absent of spirit. The list of those who had lived through the wrath of a sea and the dying groan of a Titan.  
She stared dumbly at him for a moment, because she didn't believe she was really alive. Like a ghost she floated in and out of herself, not really supervising her functioning.  
Her tongue automatically curled into "DeWitt-Bukater," because that was all she had known her entire seventeen years. But, looking beyond the officer and into the sea grey with a lover's blood, seeing the sky grey with a lover's weeping, and looking at her destination that destiny had taken her to, she could not force it out of her lips. Instead, the name of another was there, a name so unbelievably revered in her mind that she had to relish in it for a moment.  
She felt as though she were Jack's wife in a way that vows could not do, in a way that had to do with two creatures of God being tied together between two Times and two Places with a strand of love so pure that it could never be broken. So she looked beyond the man beside her, trying to find another, trying to feel another, be another. And she strengthened the string between them with iron, binding them in one forever.  
"Dawson," she breathed, and feeling a bit of warmth spread through her, knew she had made the right choice. The officer took his pencil and wrote it, concentrating just on the letters and refusing to concentrate on Rose's emotions. She didn't notice but was trying to get out the whole name she had made for herself from him. She trembled because she had heard it only in her wildest, most beautiful dreams. "Rose Dawson," she confirmed. And she knew, beyond doubt, that yes, she had been loved.  
The man nodded softly, as if still terrified to startle her, and whispered, "Thank you." He moved on to the next torn life, the next absent mind, the next tortured fragment of a person.  
She put her hands deeper into her pocket and looked back at the Statue of Liberty, truly in her mind saving this moment for all moments to come. She was here, but here wasn't what she had wanted. She had freedom, but it didn't feel like it was supposed to. She was definitely a new person; she knew that, felt it deep inside her very being. But she didn't have the joy that a free woman had; because she was chained to her past by ropes weaved of blood.  
Her knuckles scraped against something heavy in her left pocket. She didn't remember putting anything in it, but, she'd be damned, her fingers wrapped around a thick yet delicate feeling rope of metal. Confused, she pulled it out, watching the object emerge from the folds of the black coat.  
For a second, she simply gazed at it, not understanding the heavy jewel in her palm. A blue that shone more than the sky ablaze at dawn looked right back at her.  
"And they call it 'A Couer de la Mair,' or –"  
"The Heart of the Ocean."  
  
Something molded differently into the diamond and she could see a story in the reflection on it, a story that was shiny with her tears and a story that could never have a happy ending. A story that said "I was there, I am there, I have always been there, in the moment, in the screams and the pain and the ice and the sweat and the love."  
She had been lost in blue like this before, the blue of someone's eyes, transfiguring into lenses peering into her soul, cutting away layers of falseness like a knife cutting back fabric.  
And as she closed her eyelids she could see it just like it had happened seconds ago – a soft orange glow hanging in the room like perfume, as heavy as tension the two people in love created. The scratches of a charcoal stub drawing more than her form, drawing her life. Her heart banging against her chest to pick up speed and race with his.  
But when she opened her eyes there was nothing but a grey Thursday evening growing blacker by the minute, turning into deep night. Her head fell to her chest as she clutched the necklace to her, stroking her fingers over the very same edges that her Artiste had felt.  
Because it was a link to Titanic and to her Jack, a link to her heart she had left in the ocean.  
  
Jack's body had healed. He shivered still, but nothing more. Hypothermia symptoms were gone. His color was coming back.  
But his soul was another story. He could not, would not, fix the horrible hole that lay within him for fear that he would also lose the grieving that he now relied on more than the air he breathed.  
He could walk fine, but he had lost the swagger that used to accompany his steps, because that was gone with his pride and dignity and heart. He was empty inside, and it ached so bad that again and again he had abrupt fantasies of suicide, but he knew he would never kill himself. He promised his Rose that he would never kill himself.  
Whenever he thought of that word, "promise," he couldn't quite understand its meaning. He tried to put the demons in his mind at rest but he could not. He knew Rose had not lied to him, not intentionally, and that she had tried so hard . . . which in turn left him with the fact that it was his fault. All his fault. And he hated himself for it.  
Like Time turns green leaves to red and brown, he could feel his pain becoming darker and darker, more secretive, gorging at the little strength he had left. Just for his love, he knew he had to get through each day, but it was impossible to want to.  
On a grey and rainy Thursday, he sat on the edge of his bed, his clothes completely dried out but stiff, and he did not notice. Faces and voices were swirling through his head like the sea that had claimed a royal Goddess.  
"I can see the Statue of Liberty already – very small, of course!"  
With a cry that came out as a groan he buried his head in his hands, trying to beat that memory out of him. He wasn't stupid. He had checked the survivor list. Neither Fabri nor Tommy had made it.  
It was something that he was sure would haunt him past his death, the falls of his friends.  
Fabrizio had so deserved to get to America – his sweat had gone into every penny he could bet for that ticket. To him it had been like a Savior, allowing him to leave his life behind and start anew in the Land of Dreams. But for Jack it had been a place of terrible recollections, of a boy being forced to turn into a man before he even understood why.  
He could not make himself say "Fabrizio de Rossi is dead." It simply would not come out of his lips. But he knew. Even in such deep denial such as this, he knew.  
He stood up from the wrinkled infirmary sheets and strode over to the window, head down, eyes not seeing exactly where he was going. He pressed his forehead against the panes of glass made foggy by the evening mist. Through the damp, cold air he could see shapes of buildings, towering buildings he had not seen in years. He had caught the ship to France in this very pier, but that didn't really make an impression on him.  
Charlotte walked in and shut the door to close the stream of coolness, grey circles around her eyes from lack of sleep. She had been up almost since the Titanic lifeboats had reached the Carpathia, attempting to care for all the sick and wounded and frozen. But it was a tremendous job, and Jack saw she couldn't do it.  
"You're steerage, right?" She asked, exhausted written in every letter that escaped her mouth.  
He turned away from her and stared at something only he could see now, two giggling lovers spinning round and round in bitterly icy air, but their cheeks so pink with passion that the thought they could ever not be warm was unthinkable. And then a finger so soft and probing was pressed against his kiss bruised lips and she murmured, "When the ship docks, I'm getting off with you."  
Classes raced through his head and all he could see for a moment was how beautiful she was, how proper and dignified, definitely first-class material. "This is crazy," he returned, grinning, knowing just how insane it all was.  
"I know," she laughed gloriously, like a golden ribbon unwinding, "It doesn't make any sense!" Seriously, she added, "That's why I trust it." He could feel her fingers weaving in and out of his tousled hair and he looked deep into her eyes, seeing nothing but honesty and desire for him, pure, unadulterated love. His mouth softly met hers and the kiss intensified, their ardor roaring as loudly as the sea crashing on the hull.  
But then the memory was gone, and he remembered that she was too, and somehow he had been chosen to carry on the burden of living in yesterdays.  
Still not meeting Charlotte's gaze, he nodded, giving an almost inaudible, "Yeah."  
He felt the nurse's presence as she moved closer to him, and he realized that maybe she wanted to take away his hurt. She was standing right next to him when she murmured, "You can talk about it, you know."  
But he didn't want to talk about it. It was all too horrific to ever share.  
Yet something inside of him made him say, "I loved her. Dammit, I still love her. I guess I'll always love her." He tried to stop the rush of tears but in vain. Helplessly, he felt them fall down his cheeks and he knew that he had to keep going. "It was all my fault that I couldn't save her. She trusted me, and she trusted me more than I had ever been trusted in my life." In a voice husky with pain he finished, "And I can't live without her."  
That was it. He wouldn't go on. It was impossible. In his mind's eye she was still there, dancing, her feet off the ground, her red curls bouncing against her neckline, her body pressed against his and Irish music tearing reckless abandon through them, lacing them together.  
Of course, there was no more music, no more song. Just deathly silence.  
Charlotte looked at him in a way that let him know she had in no way expected him to have lost someone. She didn't know how to deal with sorrow as deep as his, so she turned to attend to other patients, because for once in her life she realized medicine couldn't help him at all.  
After awhile, as he thought about loss and suffering, she finally muttered, "Third class gets off last. Since you're recovering from an illness I think you should wait and get off after them."  
He didn't say anything, didn't object or approve.  
"Are you sure you don't need to be hospitalized?"  
He whirled around to face her, his blue eyes aflame with icy anger. "You don't get it!" He yelled, knowing he was disturbing everyone and hoping to God they heard. "You don't understand, do you? Nothing can help me! I can't move on and I can't get better! She's keeping everything that matters about me with her, in the Atlantic, and I can't get it back! Hell, I don't want it back, I want her, and nothing, nothing, can ever take the sharpness of that terrible desire out of me!"  
She was shocked at his outburst and she shrunk away from him into the deck, not speaking a word.  
An elderly woman in the cot next to his rasped, "We're all just this mass of hopeless, dazed humanity that will never heal, aren't we?"  
He bit his lip and nodded, tears dripping to the floor.  
  
In the last herd of steerage passengers to leave the Carpathia, Rose walked down the gangway, deeper into the chilling rain. The crowd of reporters had died down but some remained still, cameras flashing and mouths questioning. Hateful daggers of emotion were thrown from Rose's blue and green eyes, hating them for wanting to know the anguish she was in, hating them for wanting the suspense of the disaster, hating them for taking the story even though they could never understand it. She kept her own tale locked inside of her, too selfish and to abhorring to ever let it out.  
When her feet first touched the hard wood of the dock, she didn't feel a thing. It was not, as she had hoped, a balm to her torture. But ebbing tides climbed back, and she realized that it was not supposed to be this way. Jack was supposed to be right here, clutching her hand, his fingers exploring her hair, his smile reassuring her when nothing else would. But he was not here.  
A man in a thick black coat, carrying a pad of paper and a pencil, saw the confusion and ache in her face and leaped next to her, eagerness flashing on his features, when he almost giddily asked, "Were you on Titanic?"  
She wanted to shake her head, because it would be easier that way, but denying everything that had happened to her was like betraying the one her life was now. So she nodded, her gaze on the ground, tears of ice forming in her eyes.  
The reporter seemed to think he reached a gold mine. "What was it like? Were all the men cowardly or just a few? Did they all run? Why did it sink?"  
Suddenly her face flew up and, even though she was shorter than her questioner, she felt towering. How dare he even suggest that the souls lost on Titanic were cowards? Such bravery and courage had no word in the English language that would sufficiently honor their deeds. She felt as though he had stabbed the ghosts of her past and future.  
"You can go to hell," she breathed venomously, wanting to add on but her fury so deep she could not. He was not worthy enough to even ask about the catastrophe and failure that had forever changed her life.  
Without waiting for his reaction, she whipped around and stormed off, her immeasurable rage making her see red and not pay attention to where she walked. Not that it mattered.  
"Jack," she moaned, almost silently, wanting him more than she felt she ever had. However, nothing had changed and she was alone again. No one answered except the part of her soul that was haunting her, that had taken her love and transfigured him into a horrible monster that made it impossible for her to ever live again.  
When she was thinking, she realized that she was so cold, so wet, and so helpless that she might very well die. She had not kept her promise to Jack and survived the wrath of the Atlantic Ocean to die from rain.  
There was a deserted bench in sight. She groped for it, stiff fingers curling around the peeling paint on the metal. Somehow she managed to sit down and finally stretch out. Her eyelids were heavy and she knew that sleep was her only way to get out of her nightmare that breathed life. When, if, morning ever came, she would have to figure out a way to survive.  
Of course, as she huddled to try to keep out the cold she knew was plaguing her for life, she never expected the sun to rise again.  
  
A clock chimed midnight somewhere in the twisting corridors that lay beyond the infirmary. The hospital ward had been emptied out, with most of its occupants leaving on stretchers bound for the nearest medical building.  
Jack was the only one left as sheets were torn from mattresses and thrown in piles to be washed. Charlotte had still not approached him since he had yelled at her, and he didn't really care.  
He knew it was time to leave this wretched place, the sea, but hardly felt himself open the thin wooden door on walk out on deck. The rain sprinkled on his skin and he was reminded of a verse his mother had often hummed about her own parents.  
  
There's holes in the floor of heaven,  
And her tears are pouring down  
That's how we know she's watchin'  
Wishin' she could be here now  
  
He lifted his face to the sky, washing his entire body in Rose's tears, letting them envelop him like a blanket. The city was not dark because of numerous lamps, but to him he was in black night, stars strewn across a black sky, bodies strewn across a black sea, loneliness strewn across a black soul that was finally, finally finding white again.  
His heavy, ragged boots thudded on the otherwise empty deck as he made his way to the deserted gangway. He hadn't the slightest idea where he was going, but he knew he was going somewhere.  
As he disembarked the ship, he gathered all his pain and love to take with him, so he would never, ever forget the miracles and tragedies that had happened on this blessed and cursed ocean.  
A few poor spirits slept in the doorways of crumbling houses that were standing only on skeletons and would fall within the year. Others joined prostitutes in the streets, and still others sat next to their collection of goods to sell for food.  
He had met their kind before, countless numbers of others whom life had not seen fit to consecrate. But he was amazed each time he saw another human that had not undergone the anguish he was facing now.  
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked on, not realizing that he was in America again, in his homeland, because it didn't matter anymore.  
Eventually he reached a bench and he knew he needed to rest, but another person had taken it for their own comfort. He saw the petite frame sleeping, fitfully turning and tossing, and something inside of him sparked, but he ignored it. Pity and sympathy was a thing of the past.  
Not having the energy to press on anymore, he moved a few paces away and sank against the wall of a building, allowing his eyes to close and face the horrors that lurked beyond their shut lids.  
  
A muffled cry jerked Jack out of a pathetic sleep that hadn't been working for him anyway. He highly doubted that he'd ever sleep well again.  
Dawn was a pink and yellow smudge on the horizon, lighting the crinkled edges of the ocean that went as far as he could see, for him, in either direction, behind his life or in front of it. His muscles were stiff with being in such an uncomfortable position. Tears were dried on his cheeks from his sobbing while he dreamt. His heart felt like a stone in his ribcage.  
There were already newspaper criers on the corners. "Titanic sinks! Great loss of life! Get the story here!"  
He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming in hate at the rest of the world that didn't get what had happened. No one but him could understand why his Rose was no longer his Rose, but a Rose in another place.  
The person on the bench cried out again. Obviously, they were being tortured in the realm of dreams. Before he could stop himself, that old emotion of caring welled up inside him again and he stood, groaning at the fatigue in his legs, and walked over to the human he was sure was hidden beneath the heavy black jacket.  
Time suddenly moved in slow pace, he would remember later. Each heartbeat seemed to take a minute to complete. For at the crowning of that coat was hair.  
It wasn't any hair. It wasn't normal waves of brown of straight strands of blonde. No, it was wild, untamed, beautiful curls of red. Pure, tangled red. Red as blood. Only one woman he knew had curls like that, curls that had a mind of their own, curls he had woven his calloused fingers through, curls he had buried his nose in and taken in the scent of sweet rose water.  
If he had a knife, he thought he might have used it and actually killed himself even though he had promised not to. He was going crazy, out of his mind, insane.  
But he had to know.  
His breath was coming in strangled gasps and his lips bled from the imprint his teeth were making. His hands shook more than they had in the sea as he reached out to peel down the topcoat.  
Groping fingertips found the collar. He attempted to ready himself for disappointment, but knew it was hopeless for him to even try. As the girl cried out again, he jumped but did not let his hold weaken from the fabric. He started to pull it down.  
For a moment, all he could see was that hair. Then her arm came into view, a smooth, pale arm, gleaming like alabaster in the waxing sunlight, flesh deepened with a pinkish color from the warmth of her position.  
He dropped to his knees and moaned in utter torment. This was by far the worst moment since he had woken on the Carpathia. He was seeing people that no longer existed. He lifted his eyes up, half expecting to see Fabrizio and Tommy standing next to him, but was greeted only by the waves of passerby on their way to work.  
In a jerking movement, before he was ready, he yanked to coat completely off and threw it on the floor. And fell back.  
He knew that dress. Its folds of pale blues and lavenders and roses accented the body beneath it so beautifully, the magnificent form he knew by memory. His heart beat so hard he could feel each individual rib bone puncturing it. It couldn't be, and he knew it. But he had to wonder why his heart would lie to him like this. He could feel the familiar pumping inside of him that he knew to be love. And it hurt, bad.  
Trembling, he moved the girl's hair to see her face.  
God damn it all to hell!  
As he looked into that face, his insides turned and his mouth buzzed and his eyes rained. He had never seen her sleep before. Soft eyelids were lightly pressed against her bottom eyelashes. Red, ripe lips called to him, parted slightly, gentle, gaspy breaths leaving in between them. A divine angel that he had thought he would never see again was lying in the middle of New York City, dirty and tattered, on a bench, looking as though life had wasted her. And he had done that! He had! His celestial Being was as lovely as ever, a reminder that the world was not ruined. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn't force himself to wake up. Pale sunlight framed her majestic face, crowning her high cheekbones and accented her frame like mist from heaven. He couldn't breathe, could barely blink, only stared, because he knew it wasn't real and it was terrible. He wanted to touch her face but he was too scared.  
She stirred.  
And he nearly fell over. She stirred. It was a sign of life. A sign that evil could not triumph over love after all. A sign that a single petal on a rose was still enough to bloom a flower.  
Satan's knife was lodged within him as the tears caught up and overflowed from his eyes. He felt the bitter anguish that one could only feel for their soulmate, and it was killing him. Both worlds, Heaven and Hell, were crashing together to make Earth and he knew he would wake up form this dream, and he would be alone. It was enough to overwhelm him and he sank to the floor, pressing his forehead against the cold metal of the bench, and murmured, "Oh my God, Rose, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry . . ."  
The sobs jerked out of him like someone yanking thread from a frayed piece of fabric. He couldn't stop crying, because he would never see this amazing Person again, and he hated himself for it. Once this nightmare and blessing vision was gone, he would be against that wall, sore and aching, a man whom had lost everything that made him worthy enough to be called a man.  
Passion overfilled him for a moment, and he reached out a tremulous hand towards her. This break of reality felt so . . . real. He looked at her with eyes that gleamed, a soft smile that spoke of utter and complete adoration. With gentle fingertips he caressed this Ghost's cheek.  
It felt like it had before, except colder. Her skin beckoned to him just as much, her color was just as fair, but she felt clammy. Touching her again, in a dream even, was almost too much for him and he fought valiantly to stay silent. A dove inside of her was released into him through his fingernails and burst like a flame into his spirit he cried out.  
Everything he had been so sure of scrambled in his mind and he was confused as to whether he had died or she had, whether she was sleeping and he was watching he as a ghost or he was in the realms of night.  
Rose could feel someone staring at her and she knew immediately who it was. The evil presence that hadn't left her since the early morning hours of April 15, the Jack that the Devil had transformed into a horrific monster in her mind.  
As his wrenching sob ended, her eyes suddenly bolted open.  
He wanted to weep even harder.  
Those eyes were exactly – blue and green seas, as deep and complex as the Atlantic, tones changing every second, jewels dancing in her pupils, watery pathways to her soul. But there was also a terrible and horrible secret, exactly as there had been before, and a chained sadness that she could not escape. He wondered why God was showing him this.  
Rose knew that it was his Ghost, and she hated it. She hated that he wouldn't let her just live, or just be. She hated that it was her fault that he was no longer here. With blank and dull pupils, she focused on him, half expecting him to waver and disappear, but he did not, and the torture continued.  
Jack realized one thing was different though. He could see freedom burning in her eyes.  
She seemed so puzzled when she saw him and he just stared back at her, feeling their glances lock together and their spirits reunite after they had been torn apart. And then the realization dawned on him.  
He was not dreaming. He was really here, his Rose had really survived, they were really in New York City, and fate had given him a second chance.  
It hit him so hard, like bullets escaping a rifle, and he couldn't exactly put two and two together. But when he did, he still couldn't say anything. He was too lowly compared to her to say anything.  
She stared at him, knowing he wasn't there, knowing he would never really ever be there again, and knowing that for some reason she was being forced to harbor such undeniable pain in her heart for such a long, long time. He was hurting her so very badly, and she knew that he knew it, and she wanted to know why.  
He expected her irises to shine with relief and amazement, expected the question, "How . . .?" Expected soft lips to press to his.  
But that's not what he got.  
". . . Jack . . .?" The question was more like she was whispering a forbidden story that lurked within the very reaches of her being. She tried to read past his physical appearance, tried to reach for his soul, but she could not because he was not, he was a part of her mind that would never leave that damned, God-forsaken ocean.  
He couldn't speak for a moment. Her voice was so beautiful. It reminded him of something he couldn't understand – the very core of his life. He cupped her cheek in his hand and he felt a tear trace his rough palms. Finally, he was able to get out her name. ". . . R . . . Rose?"  
His mouth was as dry as a desert and for the first time in too long of a time, it felt wonderful to say her name, like he had been born to say it, had been waiting all his twenty years.  
She heard him grope inside of himself to say her name, and she wanted to kill this imposter that was in her beloved Jack's place, taking everything that she had tried so hard to keep, taking the memories and the love she needed to survive.  
She didn't fling her arms around his neck. She didn't try to kiss him. But what perplexed him most was she didn't just stare at him. Every inch of his body was radiating with pure, indescribable need to hold her again, to reassure himself that she was tangible, to feel her as he hadn't felt her in what felt like boundless eternities.  
But she pushed him away. He didn't realize it at first, and in slow motion saw two perfect hands reaching out to him. He was going to take them in his own and pull her to him, but they connected with his chest and sent him stumbling backwards.  
Hurt was dripping from every part of her form. She turned to him and seethed, "Leave me alone, Jack! Leave me in peace!" Her eyes gleamed like magnolia leaves in absolute abhorrence for him.  
The words crackled like dry dust against his ears. He didn't comprehend her for a moment. When it did the most consuming rage and suffering torture he had ever felt ate him alive. The devil cackled mercilessly in his heart, spreading the pain to the very tips of his hair to his toes. Everything spun in wild orbits and he nearly fell into the bay. He cursed out loud, not at Rose, but at God, for making everything happen this way, for filling him with a love he could not carry out, for slowly killing him from the inside.  
"I'm sorry, I tried!" She was still screaming, looking at him like he was a monster or a murderer. "I tried to save you, but I just couldn't, it was so cold and then it was too late . . ." She broke into crazy sobs, burying her untamed scarlet locks in her hands, her delicate shoulders shaking violently. She could still feel his warm, smooth lips lingering on hers and her heart beating so fast she thought she was the wind, racing over the diamond-sparkling sea.  
Numbly, he grasped what she was saying as he made out the words from between her slender fingers and weeping, "Stop haunting me . . ."  
She thought he wasn't real. She thought he was dead and she thought that he blamed her for it. She thought that he was back for revenge.  
Oh Rose!  
He damned himself for making her go through this, for making her feel such complete loneliness, for abandoning her, for leaving her for life to ravage her. He refused to ever let her feel this way again.  
He got up, still trembling from the horror he had felt, and stood her up. She felt his hands on her arms and shrieked, "You're not real, don't make me feel this! Don't make me love you!" He crushed her to his chest and she fought hard, so hard that he felt her knock the wind out of him, so hard he could almost see the bruises spreading on his middle. Her nails dug into his back and he felt the skin breaking in half-moon shapes and warmth oozing down his spine. She kicked and wept, and he wept with her. His tears wove a path through her blood-colored hair, and faintly he caught the scent of rosewater.  
"I'm so sorry, Rose," he murmured again. This time she heard him. Her body suddenly went limp and he felt water soaking his shirt where her face was against him. He pulled her tighter to him and smoothed her curls with one hand, his other arm linked around her waist. "It's all my fault and it will never, not ever, happen again. I'm here, I'm real."  
She bit her lip and looked up at him, not believing, not letting herself give in, and he was shocked all over again at how undeniably lovely she was. But the beauty was being intruded on by all of the anguish that these two hearts had had to suffer. Her lips were inches from his but he didn't even dream of kissing her ever again. All he wanted was for her to know that he loved her. Loved her with such a passion that it was sweet agony for him.  
She felt that curious shivering inside and knew that this demon or angel or whatever he was made to be was reading her soul again. She felt something inside of him break as his eyes searched her own, finding what they dreaded, that the shine on life was gone. The blue captivated her, entrapping her in the ice of her past. He was her past. He had always been her past and was now her future. Slowly he turned over the leaves of the past few days, reading each page of grief and desolation and wretchedness that was written with blood across her insides. She was so confused, and lover's misery wound through her like a scorching river. She wanted that heady feeling to take her again; she wanted to think that she and Mr. Dawson owned the world and that Time had stopped for them. But, like all things, Time had moved on, leaving them alone. And now his ghost, his memory, and his terrifying hate were all she had left.  
However, somehow, doubts were vanishing from her mind no matter how much she tried to keep them. She could not ignore the foreign emotions sweeping through her at the feeling of Jack's muscled arms entwining around her waist, the absolute safety and satisfaction that wrapped her body like heat from a fire.  
The pain and feeling of failure still would not leave and she continued to silently cry as more tears cascaded down his face, because she saw that he had seen a dying Rose.  
"Maybe . . ." She thought, "Maybe he really is here . . ." The very idea was too much for her, and the last thing she remembered was looking into his heavenly face and everything going black.  
Jack's quick reactions set in as he felt the inner parts of Rose crumble and she collapsed in his arms. The clouds of despair that would not leave him suddenly lifted, and for just a moment he caught a ray of the sun as he laid her down on the bench. He sat next to her on the ground, praying furiously for her to believe, hating himself for making her hate, silently screaming at himself for all of her silent screams, feeling love coursing through him as she regained her ability to love.  
He tenderly brushed a ruby curl out of her closed emerald eyes and stared at her with such gentleness all times and places ceased to exist except one. The cold, loneliness of the Atlantic continued to haunt him.  
Salt water beat an even thicker path down his smooth, boyish cheeks as, for the second time but the first time really believing it, he murmured, "It'll be alright now. It'll be alright now." 


	24. Peace in the Abyss

Review  
  
Rose woke but didn't open her eyes because she was terrified. She was absolutely terrified that she would be alone again, and at the same time terrified he would be with her. There was no sign of life about her except for the gentle increments of her chest rising and falling as her lungs filled and emptied, like her life, being filled and emptied.  
She could feel something on her neck, something warm and sweet and light and moist, and she trembled inside when she realized it was someone breathing on her. It was a miracle that someone was breathing on her, breathing air into a body that had forgotten how to breathe.  
She couldn't stand the complete gnawing at her heart that told her that something enormous had just impacted her. She tried to ignore it, tried to think that she was still Rose DeWitt-Bukater, soon to be Rose Hockley. But she didn't want to be that Rose either. So she tried to pretend she didn't exist.  
Rose Dawson . . .  
That was the Rose she wanted to be. Before she could stop herself, her eyes fluttered open, pools of creamy magnolia leaves and freezing sea colliding with the dream in front of her.  
He was still there.  
It was impossible but he was still there. His lumpy, off-white, worn shirt, was within reach and his streaked golden hair dangled inches from her face. His eyelids were closed as if he were praying. She prayed too, prayed for God to show her whether this was a nightmare or a blessed reality.  
Suddenly Jack felt a stare pierce his skin and he started, only to see Rose staring back at him. Lover's gazes met and wove together, piecing a tale of screams and tears and hate and heaven and hell together like a needle sewing a quilt with patches of pain. A shriek erupted silently inside both of them, reinforcing the thread that held them together, the thread of passion and complete devotion.  
Rose shivered as he cautiously took her hand in his, eyes never leaving her own, piercing her with a gaze that was frantically trying to reassure her that everything was alright, desperately trying to feel the same girl he had felt before. A single drop of murdered rain slipped from the corner of her eye and fell on her neck as she took in the texture of his hand again. Slowly, nervously, one of her slender fingers caressed his palm, feeling the rough corners and trembling at their soft touch. These were the fingers of an artist of life, one who saw truth and beauty in everything and everyone, and one who saw his soulmate in her.  
Ever so gradually, actuality sunk into her skin, and she began to slowly awake to the fact that he was real, that he was not a ghost, and that she wasn't dreaming. Her tongue clumsily formed her words, "Jack . . . oh my God . . ."  
He knew she finally recognized him to be alive, to be hers, and to be the same as he had been. For a moment they stared at each other, shocked to the point of breathlessness and spellbound, emotions and sentences whirling in their head but never making it on their lips.  
Suddenly, Rose collapsed into his arms, sinking to the cobbled sidewalk with him, weeping so hard that she couldn't draw breaths, and everything either one had ever wanted to say spilled out in that one action. They transferred to each other their relief, their fear, and the absolute rediscovery of life in their souls. There was no need for words; there was no capability for words; no want for words. They sunk against the leg of the bench, Rose pressed against Jack's chest, Jack holding her and rocking her until both of their hearts broke and became one with the other all over again.  
They had reunited. It was impossible, and they both knew it. There was so much horror in their stories that they were forced to bear it together, as a single being.  
Jack was being tormented by something that he had never said to her. It was almost too early to say it, but at the same time it seemed many lifetimes too late. His heart rate accelerated until it nearly burst its seams. Looking at this angel again made everything completely unrealistic so he didn't care. Finally, his mouth shaped the first word in his mentally put together speech. But the speech didn't last long. He just started saying everything that he had felt for the past few days, the complete torture and agony, his throat barely making more than a husky murmur into her wild hair.  
"Oh God, Rose . . . oh my God I'm so sorry . . . oh my God . . . I . . . It all hurt so bad, I couldn't even come to grips with the fact that you weren't there anymore, and that made it hurt worse, and everything was so black, and I was always so cold, and I wanted to kill myself because I thought you would forever be cold, and damn it all, I didn't tell you when I had the chance, so I have to tell you now, and I'm sorry this doesn't sound perfect but –" He paused suddenly, the frantic tone in his voice ceasing, and she looked up into his eyes, terrified that what he was going to say would be little more than salt to her wounds.  
Swallowing hard, he finished in a shaky whisper, "I love you. I love you so much. I love you more than the air I breathe and the world I live in and nothing, I mean nothing, will ever, ever change that. I've loved you since the moment I saw you. You're beautiful, so beautiful, and I'm so sorry for everything, and even if you can't forgive me, I want you to know that I love you."  
Something inside of Rose cracked and she cried harder with relief, because she realized something. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how many torturous days or months or years she had been through, even Hell couldn't change the face that she was Jack's Rose.  
Scared to death, terrified beyond recognition that she would turn him away, he leaned closer to her, drawn like a moth to a flame, except this flame would surely burn this moth.  
Before he could stop himself, his lips impacted with hers, and they were both thrown into the wild whirlwind of emotions that one calls love and grief, pain and eternal agony evaporating, sweet sighs of passion whispering from their mouths. Rose almost pushed him away on instinct, but all instincts suddenly vanished and she threw her arms around his neck, leaning back against the wood of the bench, praying to God that this would never end, but that the torment and cruelty of her life was. She couldn't understand the transformations that had taken place inside of her so quickly, but she thanked the celestial beings that it had, because now she finally knew what it was like to live and die for someone, to love someone so much that her heart broke and she didn't care, all she cared for was him.  
In that second, even though the two lovers were without a home, without a plan, without a thought, they were happy, finally, finally happy. For they had finally discovered the true meaning of the overused word "love." It was not as simple as it sounded. It was the presence of an actual existence inside of each of them, tying them together so they could feel what the other felt, know what the other knew. It was the deep bond that connected them between their two Times and Places and reunited them by a chance of fate and maybe, just maybe, their destinies were one.  
Silently, hundreds of miles away, beneath a sea so dark with blood that the sky reflected it, the people of the Abyss applauded for the lost who had actually survived. The sound swirled into the heavens and was lost amongst the peace of a Titan.  
  
The End   
  
Hey y'all, it isn't over yet! Someone has to record their lives, right? Look for the sequel that should be coming soon, titled "Forever by the Sea" 


End file.
